Produced by Al Haines

[Transcriber's note: Extensive research found no evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Kid Wolf Of Texas

A Western Story

By

WARD M. STEVENS

CHELSEA HOUSE

79 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y.

PUBLISHERS

Kid Wolf Of Texas

Copyright, 1930, by CHELSEA HOUSE

Printed in the U. S. A.

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE LIVING DEAD II. A THANKLESS TASK III. THE GOVERNOR'S ANSWER IV. SURPRISES V. THE CAMP OF THE TERROR VI. ON THE CHISHOLM TRAIL VII. MCCAY'S RECRUIT VIII. ONE GAME HOMBRE IX. THE NIGHT HERD X. TUCUMCARI'S HAND XI. A BUCKSHOT GREETING XII. THE S BAR SPREAD XIII. DESPERATE MEASURES XIV. AT DON FLORISTO'S XV. GOLIDAY'S CHOICE XVI. A GAME OF POKER XVII. POT SHOTS XVIII. ON BLACKSNAKE'S TRAIL XIX. THE FANG OF THE WOLF XX. BATTLE ON THE MESA XXI. APACHES XXII. THE RESCUE XXIII. TWO OPEN GRAVES XXIV. PURSUIT XXV. BLIZZARD'S CHARGE

KID WOLF OF TEXAS

CHAPTER I

THE LIVING DEAD

"Oh, I want to go back to the Rio Grande!
The Rio!
That's where I long to be!"

The words, sung in a soft and musical tenor, died away and changed to a plaintive whistle, leaving the scene more lonely than ever. For a few moments nothing was to be seen except the endless expanse of wilderness, and nothing was to be heard save the mournful warble of the singer. Then a horse and rider were suddenly framed where the sparse timber opened out upon the plain.

Together, man and mount made a striking picture; yet it would have been hard to say which was the more picturesque—the rider or the horse. The latter was a splendid beast, and its spotless hide of snowy white glowed in the rays of the afternoon sun. With bit chains jingling, it gracefully leaped a gully, landing with all the agility of a mountain lion, in spite of its enormous size.

The rider, still whistling his Texas tune, swung in the concha-decorated California stock saddle as if he were a part of his horse. He was a lithe young figure, dressed in fringed buckskin, touched here and there with the gay colors of the Southwest and of Mexico.

Two six-guns, wooden-handled, were suspended from a cartridge belt of carved leather, and hung low on each hip. His even teeth showed white against the deep sunburn of his face.

"Reckon we-all bettah cut south, Blizzahd," he murmured to his horse.
"We haven't got any business on the Llano."

He spoke in the soft accents of the old South, and yet his speech was colored with just a trace of Spanish—a musical drawl seldom heard far from that portion of Texas bordering the Rio Bravo del Norte.

Wheeling his mount, he searched the landscape with his keen blue eyes. Behind him was broken country; ahead of him was the terrible land that men have called the Llano Estacado. The land rose to it in a long series of steppes with sharp ridges.

Queerly shaped and oddly colored buttes ascended toward it in a puzzling tangle. Dim in the distance was the Llano itself—a mesa with a floor as even as a table; a treeless plain without even a weed or shrub for a landmark; a plateau of peril without end.

The rider was doing well to avoid the Llano Estacado. Outlaw Indian bands roamed over its desolate expanse—the only human beings who could live there. In the winter, snowstorms raced screaming across it, from Texas to New Mexico, for half a thousand miles. It was a country of extremes. In the summer it was a scorching griddle of heat dried out by dry desert winds. Water was hard to find there, and food still harder to obtain. And it was now late summer—the season of mocking mirages and deadly sun.

The horseman was just about to turn his steed's head directly to the southward when a sound came to his ears—a cry that made his eyes widen with horror.

Few sounds are so thrillingly terrible as the dying scream of a mangled horse, and yet this was far more awful. Only the throat of a human being could emit that chilling cry. It rose in shrill crescendo, to die away in a sobbing wail that lifted the hair on the listener's head. Again and again it came—a moan born of the frightful torture of mortal agony.

Giving his mount a touch of spur, the horseman turned the animal westward toward the Llano Estacado. So horrible were the sounds that he had paled under his tan. But he headed directly toward the direction of the cries. He knew that some human being was suffering frightful pain.

Crossing a sun-baked gully, he climbed upward and onto a flat-topped, miniature butte. Here he saw a spectacle that literally froze him with horror.

Although accustomed to a hundred gruesome sights in that savage land, he had never seen one like this. Staked on the ground, feet and arms wide-stretched, and securely bound, was a man. Or rather, it was a thing that had once been a man. It was a torture that even the diabolical mind of an Indian could not have invented. It was the insane creation of another race—the work of a madman.

For the suffering wretch had been left on his back, face up to the sun, with his eyelids removed!

Ants crawled over the sufferer, apparently believing him dead. Flies buzzed, and a raven flapped away, beating the air with its startled wings. The horseman dismounted, took his water bag from his horse, and approached the tortured man.

The moaning man on the ground did not see him, for his eyes were shriveled. He was blind.

The youth with the water bag tried to speak, but at first words failed to come. The sight was too ghastly.

"Heah's watah," he muttered finally. "Just—just try and stand the pain fo' a little longah. I'll do all I can fo' yo'."

He held the water bag at the swollen, blackened lips. Then he poured a generous portion of the contents over the shriveled eyes and skeletonlike face.

For a while the tortured man could not speak. But while his rescuer slashed loose the rawhide ropes that bound him, he began to stammer a few words:

"Heaven bless yuh! I thought I was dead, or mad! Oh, how I wanted water! Give me more—more!"

"In a little while," said the other gently.

In spite of the fact that he was now free, the sufferer could not move his limbs. Groans came from his lips.

"Shoot me!" he cried. "Put a bullet through me! End this, if yuh've got any pity for me! I'm blind—dying. I can't stand the pain. Yuh must have a gun. Why don't yuh kill me and finish me?"

It was the living dead! The buckskin-clad youth gave him more water, his face drawn with compassion.

"Yo'll feel bettah afta while," he murmured. "Just sit steady."

"Too late!" the tortured man almost screamed, "I'm dyin', I tell yuh!"

"How long have yo' been like this?"

"Three-four days. Maybe five. I lost count."

"Who did this thing?" was the fierce question.

"'The Terror'!" the reply came in a sobbing wail. "'The Masked Terror' and his murderin' band. I was a prospector. A wagon train was startin' across the Llano, and I tried to warn 'em. I never reached 'em. The Terror cut me off and left me like this! Say, I don't know yore name, pard, but——"

"Call me 'Kid Wolf,'" answered the youth, "from Texas." His eyes had narrowed at the mention of the name "The Terror."

"Somethin' on my mind, Kid Wolf. It's that wagon train. The Terror will wipe it out. Promise me yuh'll try and warn 'em."

"I promise, old-timah," murmured the Texan. "Only yo' needn't to have asked that. When yo' first mentioned it, I intended to do it. Where is this wagon train, sah?"

In gasps—for his strength was rapidly failing him—the prospector gave what directions he could. Kid Wolf listened intently, his eyes blazing-blue coals.

"I'm passin' in my checks," sighed the sufferer weakly, when he had given what information he could. "I'll go easier now."

"Yo' can be sure that I'll do all I can," the Texan assured him. "Fo' yo' see, that's always been mah business. I'm just a soldier of misfohtune, goin' through life tryin' to do all I can fo' the weak and oppressed. I'll risk mah life fo' these people, and heah's mah hand on that!"

The prospector groped for his hand, took it, and tried to smile. In a few moments he had breathed his last, released from his pain. Kid Wolf removed the bandanna from his own throat and placed it over the dead man's face. Then he weighted it down with small rocks and turned to go.

"Just about the time I get to thinkin' the world is good, Blizzahd," he sighed, addressing his white horse, "I find somethin' like this. Well, seems like we hit out across the Llano, aftah all. Let's get a move on, amigo! We've got work to do."

The Texan's face, as he swung himself into the saddle, was set and hard.

"Oh, I'm goin' back to the Rio Grande!
The Rio!
For most a yeah, I've been away,
And I'm lonesome now fo' me Old Lone Stah!
The Rio!
Wheah the gila monsters play!"

It was Kid Wolf's second day on the Llano Estacado, and his usual good spirits had returned. His voice rose tunefully and cheerily above the steady drumming of Blizzard's hoofs.

Surely the scene that lay before his eyes could not have aroused his enthusiasm. It was lonely and desolate enough, with its endless sweeps dim against each horizon. The sky, blue, hot and pitiless, came down to meet the land on every hand, making a great circle unbroken by hill or mountain.

So clean-swept was the floor of the vast table-land that each mile looked exactly like another mile. There was not a tree, not a shrub, not a rock to break the weary monotony. It was no wonder that the Spanish padres, who had crossed this enormous plateau long before, had named it the Llano Estacado—the Staked Plains. They had had a good reason of their own. In order to keep the trail marked, they had been compelled to drive stakes in the ground as they went along. Although the stakes had gone long since, the name still stuck.

The day before, the Texan had climbed the natural rock steps that led upward and westward toward the terrible mesa itself, each flat-topped table bringing him nearer the Staked Plains. And soon after reaching the plateau he had found the trail left by a wagon train.

From the ruts left in the soil, Kid Wolf estimated that the outfit must consist of a large number of prairie schooners, at least twenty. The Texan puzzled his mind over why this wagon train was taking such a dangerous route. Where were they bound for? Surely for the Spanish settlements of New Mexico—a perilous venture, at best.

Even on the level plain, a wagon outfit moves slowly, and the Texan gained rapidly. Hourly the signs he had been following grew fresher. Late in the afternoon he made out a blot on the western horizon—a blot with a hazy smudge above it. It was the wagon train. The smudge was dust, dug up by the feet of many oxen.

"They must be loco," Kid Wolf muttered, "to try and cut across The
Terror's territory."

The Texan had heard much of The Terror. And what plainsman of that day hadn't? He was the scourge of the table-lands, with his band of a hundred cutthroats, desperadoes recruited from the worst scum of the border. More than half of his hired killers, it was said, were Mexican outlaws from Sonora and Chihuahua. Some were half-breed Indians, and a few were white gunmen who killed for the very joy of killing.

And The Terror himself? That was the mystery. Nobody knew his identity. Some rumors held that he was a white man; others maintained that he was a full-blooded Comanche Indian. Nobody had ever seen his face, for he always was masked. His deeds were enough. No torture was too cruel for his insane mind. No risk was too great, if he could obtain loot. With his band behind him, no man was safe on the Staked Plains. Many a smoldering pile of human bones testified to that.

As the Texan approached the outfit, he could hear the sharp crack of the bull whips and the hoarse shouts of the drivers. Twenty-two wagons, and in single file! Against the blue of the horizon, they made a pretty sight, with their white coverings. Kid Wolf, however, was not concerned with the beauty of the picture. Great danger threatened them, and it was his duty to be of what assistance he could. Touching his big white horse with the spur, he came upon the long train's flank.

Ahead of the train were the scouts, or pathfinders. In the rear was the beef herd, on which the outfit depended for food. Behind that was the rear guard, armed with Winchesters.

The Texan neared the horseman at the head of the train, raising his arm in the peace signal. To his surprise, one of the scouts threw up his rifle! There was a puff of white smoke, and a bullet whistled over Kid Wolf's head.

"The fools!" muttered the Texan. "Can't they see I'm a friend?"

Setting his teeth, he rode ahead boldly, risking his life as he did so, for by this time several others had lifted their guns.

The six men who made up the advance party, eyed him sullenly as he drew up in front of them. The Texan found himself covered by half a dozen Winchesters.

"Who are yuh, and what do yuh want?" one of them demanded.

"I'm Kid Wolf, from Texas, sah. I have impo'tant news fo' the leader of this outfit."

One of the sextet separated himself from the others and came so close to the Texan that their horses almost touched.

"I'm in command!" he barked. "My name's Modoc. I'm in charge o' this train, and takin' it to Sante Fe."

The man, Modoc, was an impressive individual, bulky and stern. His face was thinner than the rest of his body, and Kid Wolf was rather puzzled to read the surly eyes that gleamed at him from under the bushy black brows. He was more startled still, however, when Modoc whispered in a voice just loud enough for him to hear:

"What color will the moon be to-night?"

Kid Wolf stared in astonishment. Was the man insane?

CHAPTER II

A THANKLESS TASK

Modoc waited, as if for an answer, and when it did not come, his face took on an expression of anger, in which cunning seemed to be mingled.

"What's yore message?" he rasped.

It took Kid Wolf several seconds to recover his composure. Was the wagon train being led to its doom by a madman? What did Modoc mean by his low-voiced, mysterious query? Or did he mean anything at all? The Texan put it down as the raving of a mind unbalanced by hardship and peril.

"I suppose yo'-all know," he drawled loudly enough for them all to hear, "that yo're on the most dangerous paht of the Llano, and that yo're off the road to Santa Fe."

"Yo're a liar!" the train commander snarled.

Kid Wolf tried to keep his anger from mounting. This was the thanks he got for trying to help these people!

"I'll prove it," sighed the kid patiently. "What rivah was that yo' crossed a few days ago?"

"Why, the Red River; we crossed it long ago," Modoc sneered. "Yo're either a liar or a fool, Kid! And I'd advise yuh to mind yore own business."

"Call me 'Wolf,'" said the Texan, a ring of steel in his voice. "I'm just 'The Kid' to friends. Others call me by mah last name. And speakin' of the trail, that wasn't the Red Rivah yo' crossed. It was the Wichita. And yo' must have gone ovah the Wichita Mountains, too."

"The Wichita!" ejaculated one of the other men. "Why, Modoc, yuh told us——"

"And I told yuh right!" said the leader furiously. "I've been over this route before, and I know just where we are."

"Yo're in The Terror's territory," drawled The Kid softly. "And I've heahd from a reliable source that he's planned to raid yo'."

The others paled at the mention of The Terror. But Modoc raised his voice in fury.

"Who are yuh goin' to believe?" he shouted. "This upstart, or me? Why, for all we know"—his voice dropped to a taunting sneer—"he might be a spy for The Terror himself—probably measurin' the strength of our outfit!"

The other men seemed to hesitate. Then one of them spoke out:

"Reckon we'll believe you, Modoc. We don't know this man, and we've trusted yuh so far."

Modoc grinned, showing a line of broken and tobacco-stained teeth. He looked at Kid Wolf triumphantly.

"Now I'll tell you a few things, my fine young fellow," he leered. "Burn the wind out o' here and start pronto, before yuh get a bullet through yuh. Savvy?"

Kid Wolf decided to make one last appeal. If Modoc were insane, it seemed terrible that these others should be led to their doom on that account. Only the Texan could fully appreciate their peril. The wagon train was loaded with valuable goods, for these men were traders. The Terror would welcome such plunder, and it was his custom never to leave a man alive to carry the tale.

"Men," he said, "yo'-all got to believe me! Yo're in terrible danger, and off the right road. One man has already given his life to save yo', and now I'm ready to give mine, if necessary. Let me stay with yo' and guide yo' to safety, fo' yo' own sakes! Mah two guns are at yo' service, and if The Terror strikes, I'll help yo' fight."

The advance guard heard him out. Unbelief was written on all their faces.

"I think yuh'd better take Modoc's advice," one of them said finally, "and git! We can take care of ourselves."

His heart heavy, Kid Wolf shrugged and turned away. The rebuff hurt him, not on his own account, but because these blindly trusting men were being deceived. Modoc, whether purposely or not, had led them astray.

He was about to ride away when his eyes fell upon the foremost of the wagons, which was now creaking up, pulled by its straining team. Kid Wolf gave a start. Thrust out of the opening in the canvas was a child's head, crowned with golden hair. There were women and children, then, in this ill-fated outfit!

The Texan rode his horse over to the wagon and smiled at the youngster.
It was a boy of three, chubby-faced and brown-eyed.

"Hello, theah," Kid called. "What's yo' name?"

The baby returned the smile, obviously interested in this picturesque stranger.

"Name's Jimmy Lee," was the lisped answer. "I'm goin' to Santa Fe.
Where you goin'?"

Kid Wolf gulped. He could not reply. There was small chance that this little boy would ever reach Santa Fe, or anywhere else. Tears came to his eyes, and he wheeled Blizzard fiercely.

"Good-by!" came the small voice.

"Good-by, Jimmy Lee," choked the Texan.

When he looked back again at the wagon train, he could still see a small, golden head gleaming in the first prairie schooner.

"Blizzahd," muttered Kid Wolf, "we've just got to help those people, whethah they want it or not."

He pretended to head eastward, but when he was out of sight of the wagon train, he circled back and drummed west at a furious clip. The only thing he could do, he saw now, was to go to Santa Fe for help. With the obstinate traders headed directly across the Llano, they were sure to meet with trouble. If he could bring back a company of soldiers from that Mexican settlement, he might aid them in time. "If they won't let me help 'em at this end," he murmured, "I'll have to help 'em at the othah."

The town of Santa Fe—long rows of flat-topped adobes nestling under the mountain—was at that day under Spanish rule. Only a few Americans then lived within its limits.

It was a thriving, though sleepy, town, as it was the gateway to all Chihuahua. A well-beaten trail left it southward for El Paso, and its main street was lined with cantinas—saloons where mescal and tequila ran like water. There were gambling houses of ill repute, an open court for cockfighting, and other pastimes. The few gringos who were there looked, for the most part, like outlaws and fugitives from the States.

It lacked a few hours until sunset when Kid Wolf drummed into the town. The mountains were already beginning to cast long shadows, and the sounds of guitars and singing were heard in the gay streets.

Galloping past the plazas, the Texan at once went to the presidio—the palace of the governor. It was of adobe, like the rest of the buildings, but the thick walls were ornately decorated with stone. It was a fortress as well as a dwelling place, and it contained many rooms. Several dozen rather ragged soldiers were loafing about the presidio when Kid Wolf reached it, for a regiment was stationed in the town.

Kid Wolf sought an interview with the governor at once, but in spite of his pleading, he was told to return in two hours. "The most honored and respected Governor Manuel Quiroz," it seemed, was busy. If the señor would return later, Governor Quiroz would be highly pleased to see him.

There was nothing to do but wait, and the Texan decided to be patient.
He spent an hour in caring for his horse and eating his own hasty meal.
Then, finding some time on his hands, he walked through the plaza,
watching the crowds with eyes that missed nothing.

He found himself in a street where frijoles, peppers, and other foods were being offered for trade or barter. Cooking was even being done in open-air booths, and the air was heavy with seasoning and spice. Here and there was a drinking place, crowded with revelers. It was evidently some sort of feast day in Santa Fe.

In front of one of the wine shops a little knot of men and soldiers had gathered. All were flushed with drink and talking loudly in their own tongue. One of them—a captain in a gaudy uniform—saw the Texan and made a laughing remark to his companions.

Kid Wolf's face flushed under its tan. His eyes snapped, but he continued his walk. He had too much on his mind just then to resent insults.

But the captain had noticed his change of expression. The gringo, then, knew Spanish. His remarks became louder, more offensive. More than half intoxicated, he called jeeringly:

"I was just saying, señor, that many men who wear two guns do not know how to use even one. You understand, señor? Or perhaps the señor does not know the Spanish?"

Kid Wolf turned quietly.

"The señor knows the Spanish," he said softly.

The captain turned to his companions with a knowing wink. Then he addressed the Texan.

"Then, amigo, that is well," he mocked. "Perhaps the señor can shoot also. Perhaps the señor could do this."

A peon stood near by, and the captain pulled off the fellow's straw sombrero and tossed it into the street. The wind caught it and the hat sailed for some distance. With a quick movement the Spanish captain drew a pistol from his belt and fired. With a sharp report, a round, black hole appeared in the hat, low in the crown.

The crowd murmured its admiration at this feat. The captain stroked his thin black mustache and smiled proudly.

"Perhaps the señor might find that difficult to do," he mocked.

"Quién sabe?" Kid Wolf shrugged and started to pass on. He did not care to make a public exhibition of his shooting, especially when he had graver matters on his mind. But the jeers and taunts that broke loose from the half-drunken assembly were more than any man could endure, especially a Texan with fiery Southern blood in his veins. He turned, smiling. His eyes, however, were as cold as ice.

"Why," he asked calmly, "should I mutilate this po' man's hat?" His words were spoken in perfectly accented Spanish.

"The hat? Ah," mocked the captain, "if the señor hits it, I will pay for it with gold."

Kid Wolf drew his left-hand Colt so quickly that no man saw the motion. Before they knew it, there was a sudden report that rolled out like thunder—six shots, blended into one stuttering explosion. He had emptied his gun in a breath!

A gust of wind blew away the cloud of black powder smoke, and the crowd
stared. Then some one began to laugh. It was taken up by others.
Even the customers in the booths chuckled at Kid Wolf's discomfiture.
The captain's laugh was the loudest of all.

"Six shots the señor took," he guffawed, "and missed with them all! Ah, didn't I tell you that the Americans are bluffers, like their game of poker? This one carries two guns and cannot use even one!"

Kid Wolf smiled quietly. A faint look of amusement was in his eyes.

"Maybe," he drawled, "yo'-all had bettah look at that hat."

Curiously, and still smiling, some of the loiterers went over to examine the target. When they had done so, they cried out in amazement. It was true that just one bullet hole showed in the front of the sombrero. The captain's shot had drilled that one. Naturally all had supposed that the gringo had missed. Such was not the case. All of Kid Wolf's six bullets had passed through the captain's bullet mark! For the back of the hat was torn by the marks of seven slugs! Some one held the sombrero aloft, and the excited crowd roared its approval and enthusiasm. Never had such shooting been seen within the old city of Santa Fe.

The Spanish captain, after his first gasp of surprise, had nothing to say. Chagrin and disgust were written over his face. If ever a man was crestfallen, the captain was. He hated to be made a fool of, and this quiet man from Texas had certainly accomplished it.

He was about to slink off when Kid Wolf drawled after him:

"Oh, captain! Pahdon, but haven't yo' forgotten somethin'?"

"What do you mean?" snapped the other.

"Yo' were goin' to pay for this man's sombrero, I believe," said Kid
Wolf softly, "in gold."

"Bah!" snarled the officer. "That I refuse to do!"

The Texan's hand snapped down to his right Colt. A blaze of flame leaped from the region of his hip. Along with the crashing roar of the explosion came a sharp, metallic twang.

The bullet had neatly clipped away the captain's belt buckle! A yell of laughter rang out on all sides. For the captain's trousers, suddenly unsupported, slipped down nearly to his knees. With a cry of dismay, the disgruntled officer seized them frantically and held them up.

"Reach down in those," drawled the Texan, "and see if yo' can't find that piece of gold!"

The officer, white with rage in which hearty fear was mingled, obeyed with alacrity, pulling out a gold coin and handing it, with an oath, to the peon whose hat he had ruined.

"Muchas gracias," murmured Kid Wolf, reholstering his gun. "And now, if the fun's ovah, I must bid yo' buenas tardes. Adios!"

And doffing his big hat, the Texan took his departure with a sweeping bow, leaving the captain glaring furiously after him.

CHAPTER III

THE GOVERNOR'S ANSWER

Judging that it was almost time for his interview with the governor, Kid Wolf saddled Blizzard in the public establo, or stable, and rode at once to the governor's palace.

Although it did not occur to him that Quiroz would reject his plea for aid, he was filled with foreboding. He had a premonition that made him uneasy, although there seemed nothing at which to be alarmed.

Dismounting, he walked up the stone flags toward the presidio entrance—a huge, grated door guarded by two flashily dressed but barefooted soldiers. They nodded for him to pass, and the Texan found himself in a long, half-lighted passage. Another guard directed him into the office of Governor Quiroz, and Kid Wolf stepped through another carved door, hat in hand.

He found that he had entered a large, cool room, lighted softly by windows of brightly colored glass and barred with wrought iron. The tiles of the floor were in black-and-white design, and the place was bare of furniture, except at one end, where a large desk stood.

Behind it, in a chair of rich mahogany, sat an impressive figure. It was the governor.

While bowing politely, the Texan searched the pale face of the man of whom he had heard so much. By looking at him, he thought he discovered why Quiroz was so feared by the oppressed people of the district. Iron strength showed itself in the official's aristocratic features.

There was something there besides power. Quiroz had eyes that were mysterious and deep. Not even the Texan could read the secrets they masked. Cruelty might lurk there, perhaps, or friendliness—who could say? At the governor's soft-spoken invitation, Kid Wolf took a chair near the huge desk.

"Your business with me, señor?" asked the official in smoothly spoken
English.

Kid Wolf spoke respectfully, although he did not fawn over the dignitary or lose his own quiet self-assertion. He was an American. He told of finding the tortured prospector and of the plight of the approaching wagon train.

"If they continue on the course they are followin', guv'nor," he concluded, "they'll nevah reach Santa Fe. And I have every reason to believe that The Terror plans to raid them."

"And what," asked the governor pleasantly, "do you expect me to do?"

"I thought, sah," Kid Wolf replied, "that yo' would let me return to them with a company of yo' soldiers."

"My dear señor," the governor said with suave courtesy, "the people you wish to rescue are not subjects of mine."

Kid Wolf tried not to show the irritation he felt. "Surely, sah, yo' are humane enough to do this thing. I thought I told yo' theah's women and children in the wagon train."

Quiroz rubbed his chin as if in thought. His eyes, however, seemed to smolder with an emotion of which Kid Wolf could only guess the nature. The Spaniard's face was that of a hypnotist, with its thin, high-bridged nose and its chilling, penetrating gaze.

"Your name, señor?"

"Kid Wolf, from Texas, sah."

Spanish governors of that day had no reason to like gunmen from the Lone Star State. From the time of Santa Anna, Texas fighters had been thorns in their sides. But if Quiroz was thinking of this, he made no sign. He smiled with pleasure, either real or assumed.

"That is good," he said. "Señor Wolf, to show your good faith, will you be kind enough to lay your weapons on my desk? It is a custom here not to come armed in the presence of the governor."

Suspicion began to burn strongly in the back of the Texan's brain. Was Quiroz playing a crafty game? He was supposed to be friendly toward those from the States, but once before, in California, Kid Wolf had had dealings with a Spanish governor. Instantly he was on his guard, although he did not allow his face to show it.

"I am an American, sah," he replied. "Some have called me a soldier of misfohtune. Anyway, I try and do good. What good I have done fo' the weak and oppressed, sah, I've done with these." The Kid tapped his twin Colts and went on: "I've twelve lead aces heah, sah, and I'm not in the habit of layin' 'em down."

"We're not playing cards, señor." Quiroz smiled pleasantly.

"No." Kid Wolf's quick smile flashed. "But if a game is stahted, I want a hand to play with."

His eyes were fixed on the carved front of the governor's desk. There seemed something strange about the carved design. He was seated directly in front of it, in the chair Quiroz had pointed out to him, and for the last few minutes he had wondered what it was that had attracted his attention.

The desk was carved with a series of squares chiseled deep into the dark wood. In one of the squares was a black circle about the size of a small silver piece. Somehow Kid Wolf did not like the looks of it. What it could be, he could hardly guess. The Texan had learned not to take chances. Slowly, and with his eyes still on the official's smiling face, he edged his chair away from it, an inch at a time. His progress was slow enough not to attract Quiroz's attention.

"Then," asked the governor slowly, "you refuse, señor?"

"Yo'-all are a fine guessah, sah!" snapped the Texan, alert as a steel spring.

The governor moved his knee. There was a sharp report, and a streak of flame leaped from the desk front, followed by a puff of blue smoke. The bullet, however, knocked a slab of plaster from the opposite wall. Just in time, Kid Wolf had moved his chair from the range of the trap gun.

Quiroz's death-dealing apparatus had failed. The Texan's cleverness had matched his own. Concealed in the desk had been a pistol, the trigger of which had been pressed by the weight of the official's knee on a secret panel. Quick as a flash, Kid Wolf was on his feet, hands flashing down toward his two .45s!

The governor, however, was not in the habit of playing a lone hand against any antagonist. Behind Kid Wolf rang out a command in curt Spanish:

"Hands up!"

Kid Wolf's sixth sense warned him that he was covered with a dead drop. His mind worked rapidly. He could have drawn and taken the governor of Santa Fe with him to death, perhaps cutting down some of the men behind him, as well. But in that case, what would become of the wagon train, with no one to save them from The Terror? A vision of the little golden-haired child crossed his mind. No, while there was life, there was hope. Slowly he took his hands away from his gun handles and raised them aloft.

Turning, he saw six soldiers, each with a rifle aimed at his breast. In all probability they had had their eyes on him during his audience with the governor. Quiroz snarled an order to them.

"Take away his guns!" he cried. Then, while the Texan was being disarmed, he took a long black cigarette from a drawer and lighted it with trembling fingers.

"You are clever, señor," said the governor, recovering his composure. "I am exceedingly sorry, but I will have to deal with you in a way you will not like—the adobe wall." Quiroz bowed. "I bid you adios." He turned to his soldiers. "Take him to the calabozo!" he ordered sharply.

The building that was then being used as Santa Fe's prison was constructed of adobe with tremendously thick walls and no windows. The only place light and air could enter the sinister building was through a grating the size of a man's hand in the huge, rusty iron door.

Kid Wolf was marched to the prison by his sextet of guards. While the door was being opened, he glanced around him, taking what might prove to be his last look at the sky. His eyes fell upon one of the walls of the jail. It was pitted with hundreds of little holes. The Texan smiled grimly. He knew what had made them—bullets. It was the execution place!

The door clanged behind him, and a scene met The Kid's eyes that caused him to shudder. In the big, dank room were huddled fourteen prisoners. Most of them were miserable, half-naked peons. It was intolerably hot, and the air was so bad as almost to be unbreathable.

The prisoners kept up a wailing chant—a hopeless prayer for mercy and deliverance. A guttering candle shed a ghastly light over their thin bodies.

So this was what his audience with the governor had come to! What a tyrant Quiroz had proved to be! Strangely enough, The Kid's thoughts were not of his own terrible plight, but of the peril that awaited the wagon train. If he could only escape this place, he might at least help them. What a mistake he had made in going to the governor for aid!

His next thought was of his horse, Blizzard. What would become of him, if he, Kid Wolf, died? The Texan knew one thing for certain, that Blizzard was free. Nobody could touch him save his master. He was also sure that the faithful animal awaited his beck and call. The white horse was somewhere near and on the alert. Kid Wolf had trained it well.

He soon saw that escape by ordinary means from the prison was quite hopeless. There was no guard to overpower, the walls were exceedingly thick, and the door impregnable.

Only one of the prisoners, Kid Wolf noted, was an American—a sickly faced youth of about the Texan's own age. A few questions brought out the information that all the inmates of the jail were under sentence of death.

The hours passed slowly in silent procession while the dying candle burned low in the poison-laden air. Kid Wolf paced the floor, his eyes cool and serene.

His mind, however, was wide awake. When was he to be shot? In the morning? Or would his execution be delayed, perhaps for days?

The Texan never gave up hope, and he was doing more than hoping now—he was planning carefully. Kid Wolf had a hole card. Had the Spanish soldiers known him better, they would have used more care in disarming him. But then, enemies of Kid Wolf had made that mistake before, to their sorrow.

Clearly enough, he could not help the wagon train where he was. He must get out. But the only way to get out, it seemed, was to go out with the firing squad—a rather unpleasant thing to do, to say the least.

The tiny grated square in the jail door began to lighten. It grew brighter. Day was breaking.

"It will soon be time for the beans," muttered the American youth.

"Will they give us breakfast?" asked the Texan.

The other laughed bitterly. "We'll have beans," he said shortly, "but we won't eat them."

Not long afterward the iron door opened, and two soldiers entered, carrying a red earthenware olla. "Fifteen men," said one of them in Spanish, "counting the new one."

"Fifteen men," chanted the other in singsong voice. "Fifteen beans."

Kid Wolf's brows began to knit. At first he had thought that the beans meant breakfast. Now he saw that something sinister was intended. Some sort of lottery was about to be played with beans.

"There are fourteen white beans," the young American whispered, "and one black one. We all draw. The man who gets the black bean dies this morning."

The hair prickled on the Texan's head. Every morning these unfortunates were compelled to play a grim game with death.

The prisoners were all quaking with terror, as they came up to the ugly red jug to take their chance for life. As much as these miserable men suffered in this terrible place, existence was still dear to them.

One soldier shook the beans in the olla; the other stood back against the wall with leveled gun to prevent any outbreak. Then the lottery began.

Kid Wolf viewed the situation calmly, and decided that to try to wrest the weapon from the soldier would be folly. Other soldiers were watching through the grated door.

One by one, the prisoners drew. The opening in the olla was just large enough for a hand to be admitted. All was blind chance, and no one could see what he had drawn until his bean was out of the jug. Some of the peons screamed with joy after drawing their white beans. The black one was still in the jar.

The two white men were the last to draw. Both took their beans and stepped to one side to look at them. It was an even break. Kid Wolf was smiling; the other was trembling.

The eyes of Kid Wolf met the fear-stricken eyes of the other. They stood close together. Each had looked at his bean. The sick man's face had gone even whiter.

"I'll trade yo' beans," offered the Texan.

"Mine's—black!" gasped the other.

"I know," The Kid whispered in reply. "Trade with me!"

"It means that yuh give yore life for mine," was the agonized answer.
"I can't let yuh do that."

"Believe me or not, but I have a plan," urged the Texan in a low tone.
"And it might work. Hurry."

The color returned to the sick youth's face as the beans were cautiously exchanged. Then Kid Wolf turned to the soldiers and displayed a black bean.

"Guess I'm the unlucky one." He smiled whimsically. He turned to the sick boy for a final handshake. "Good luck," he whispered, "and if my plans fail, adios forever."

"Come!" ordered a Spanish soldier.

Waving his hand in farewell, Kid Wolf stepped out to meet the doom that had been prepared for him.

CHAPTER IV

SURPRISES

At the prison door, Kid Wolf was met by a squad of ten soldiers. It was the firing squad. The Texan fell in step with them and was marched around the building to the bullet-scarred wall. Kid Wolf faced the rising sun. Was he now seeing it for the last time?

If he was afraid, he made no sign. His expression was unruffled and calm. He was smiling a little, and his arms, as he folded them on his breast, did not tremble in the slightest.

The officer who was to have charge of the execution had not yet appeared on the scene, and the soldiers waited with their rifle stocks trailing in the sand.

Then there was a quick bustle. The officer sauntered around the corner of the building, his bright uniform making a gay sight in the early sun. He was a captain—the captain whom Kid Wolf had humiliated the afternoon before! The eyes of the Spanish officer, when they fell upon his victim, widened with surprise which at once gave way to exultation.

"Ah, it is my amigo—the señor of the two guns!" he cried.

It was his day of revenge! The captain could not conceal his joy at this chance to square things with his enemy for good and all. He did not try to. His laugh was sneering and amused.

"And to think it will be me—Captain Hermosillo—who will say the word to fire!" He turned to his soldiers in high good humor and waved his sword. "At twenty paces," he ordered. "We shall soon see how bravely the señor dies. Ready!"

The rifle mechanisms clattered sharply.

Then the captain turned to his victim, an insolent smile on his cruel features. "Will the señor have his eyes bandaged? Blindfolded, yes?"

Kid Wolf returned the smile. "Yes," he replied quietly. "Maybe yo' better blindfold me."

Hermosillo laughed tauntingly and turned to wink at his men. "He is brave, yes!" he mocked. "He cannot endure seeing the carabinas aimed at his heart. He wants his eyes bandaged—the muchos grande Americano! Ah, the coward!" He spat contemptuously on the sand. "He does not know how to face the guns. Well, we will humor him!"

The captain whipped a silk handkerchief from his pocket and stepped forward. Kid Wolf's eyes were gleaming with icy-blue lights. This was the moment he had been waiting for! That handkerchief was a necessary cog in his carefully laid plans. Captain Hermosillo was soon to learn just how cowardly this young Texan was. And the surprise was not going to be pleasant.

Kid Wolf's hole card was a big bowie knife—the same weapon that had played such havoc at the Alamo. He carried it in a strange hiding place—tucked into a leather sheath sewn to the inside of his shirt collar, between his shoulder blades. That knife had rescued Kid Wolf from many a tight situation, and he had practiced until he could draw it with all the speed of heat lightning.

When the captain placed the handkerchief over his eyes, Kid Wolf reached back, as if pretending to assist him. Like a flash, his fingers closed over the bone handle of the knife instead. Hermosillo found himself with the cold point of the gleaming bowie pressed against his throat!

At the same time, Kid Wolf whirled his body about so that the officer was between him and the firing squad. His left hand held the captain in a grip of steel; his right held the glittering blade against Hermosillo's Adam's apple!

"Throw down yo' rifles and back away from 'em!" Kid Wolfe called to the soldiers. "Pronto! Or I'll kill yo' captain!"

Hermosillo gave an agonized yell of fear. In a voice of quaking terror, he ordered his men to do what Kid Wolf had commanded them. His breath was coming in wheezing gasps.

The firing squad, taken aback by this sudden development—for only a few seconds had passed since The Kid had drawn the knife—hesitated, and then obeyed. At best, they were none too quick-thinking, and they saw that their leader was in a perilous plight. Their carabinas thudded to the sand.

"Bueno!" laughed the Texan boyishly.

He pushed the captain just far enough away for him to be in good hitting range. Then he lashed out at him with his hard fist, catching the fear-crazed officer directly on the point of the jaw. Many pounds of lean muscle were behind the blow, and Hermosillo landed ten feet away in a cloud of dust.

The Texan lost no time in whirling on his feet and sprinting for the corner of the building. He reached it just in time to bump into another officer, who was just then arriving on the scene. Kid Wolf snatched the pistol from his belt and sent him up against the wall with a jar. Before the disarmed Spaniard knew what had happened, he was sitting on the ground, nursing a bruised jaw, and Kid Wolf was gone!

The Texan found the streets deserted at that early hour. Racing across the plaza, he raised his voice in a coyote yell:

"Yip, yip, yipee-e-e!"

It was answered by an eager whinny. It was Blizzard! The horse, waiting patiently in the vicinity, knew that signal. It came running down another street like a white snowstorm.

Kid Wolf ran to meet the horse. A sharp rattle of rifle fire rang out behind him. The soldiers had given chase! A bullet zipped the stone flags under his feet; another smacked solidly into the corner of an adobe house.

The alarm had been given. Two gayly uniformed officers ran into the street from the direction of the presidio. They were trying to head the Texan off, attempting to get between him and his horse.

But Blizzard was coming at too hot a pace. The two Spaniards cut in just as Kid Wolf leaped to the saddle. He fired the pistol's single barrel at one of the officers, and hurled the useless weapon into the other's face.

"Come on, Blizzahd!" Kid Wolf sang out. "Let's go from heah!"

The powerful animal's hoofs thundered against the flagstones, leaped a stone wall, and charged down the street. Behind them, already organized, came the pursuit. To Kid Wolf's ears came the whine of bullets.

"From now on," he cried to his plunging horse, "it all depends on yo'-all! Burn that wind!"

Once Blizzard had hit his stride, Kid Wolf knew that no horse in Santa Fe could catch him. Striking off to the eastward in the direction of the Staked Plains, the Texan gave his animal free rein.

The pursuit was dropping behind, a few yards at a time. Instead of buzzing around his ears now, the bullets were falling short, kicking up spurts of dust. The cries in angry Spanish grew fainter until they died into a confused hubbub. Kid Wolf had left the town behind him and was racing out over the level plain. Looking back, he could see a score or more of brown clouds—dirt stirred by the horsemen who were now almost lost from view. These dwindled. In an hour only half a dozen riders remained on his trail. Blizzard was still going strong.

Out on the great Llano Estacado, The Kid managed, by superior horsemanship, to give the balance of his pursuers the slip. When he had succeeded in confusing them, he slowed his faithful mount down for a needed rest. And now where was the wagon train? Where was he to find it? A chill raced down his spine. Had The Terror already struck? The thought of the women and children in the hapless outfit filled him with a feeling akin to panic. He must find the wagon train. It might not yet be too late.

Kid Wolf was a plainsman. He could locate water where none appeared to exist; he could discover game when older men failed; and he could follow a course on the limitless prairie as surely as a sailor could navigate the seas by means of his compass. By day or by night, he was "trailwise."

Carefully Kid Wolf estimated the route the wagon train had been taking. Then he figured out the progress it had probably made since he had left it. In this way he fixed a point in his mind—an imaginary dot that he must reach if he meant to find the prairie schooners. If Modoc—the leader of the outfit—had kept to his original course, The Kid could not fail to meet them.

Accordingly, Kid Wolf traveled all the rest of that day in a straight line, marking his course by the sun. He stopped only once at noon for water and a short rest, going on again until dusk.

At nightfall, he made camp and lay awake, looking at the stars overhead. His thoughts were of The Terror and of his intended victims. Strangely enough, the face of Modoc came into his reflections, also. He could not dismiss him. Was he really insane, or was it just obstinacy? If the latter, what had he meant by his strange expression: "What color will the moon be to-night?" Kid Wolf thought for a long time and then gave it up.

He did not fear any further pursuit by the Spanish soldiers. The trail he had left behind was too puzzling; he had taken care of that. Besides, he knew that the average Spaniard feared the Apache and the other Indian tribes that infested portions of the Staked Plains. If there were any danger during the night, Blizzard would give him warning.

He was up with the dawn. At its first faint, pinkish glow, he was in the saddle again. The day promised to be hot. The midsummer sun had burned the grass to a crisp brown. By midday, mirages began to show in hollows. Heat flickered. Both horse and rider drank at a pool of yellow-brown water and pressed on.

Late in the afternoon, Kid Wolf made out a faint white line on the far horizon. It was the wagon train! He sighed with relief. The Terror, then, had not yet raided it. For The Terror left only destruction in his wake. Had he already plundered it, he would have burned the wagons to the ground.

Increasing his speed, Kid Wolf rapidly approached it. As he came nearer, he saw that the outfit was in the center of a field of alkali and making slow and painful progress. He did not see the beef herd. Plainly, something had happened during his absence.

Kid Wolf rode in, waving his hat. Would he get a bullet for his pains?
He kept his eyes open as he drummed in over the alkali flat.

Modoc and three others were at the head of the outfit. They recognized him at once. Modoc started to raise his rifle. One of the others struck the weapon down. Obviously the train commander had lost some of his influence. Another of the pathfinders shouted for Kid Wolf to come on. A dozen of the travelers left their wagons and came forward. This time they seemed glad to see Kid Wolf.

"Yuh was right, after all!" one of them cried. "Modoc led us out of the way. We're lost!"

"I meant all right," Modoc grumbled. "I did my best—must have made a mistake somewhere. I'll find the trail, never worry. And if yuh take my advice, yuh'll drive this four-flusher away from here! He don't mean us any good. What business is it of his?"

Kid Wolf sternly pointed back to the wagons.

"Those women and children theah," he snapped, "is mah business."

"Shut up, Modoc!" ordered one of the men. "We trust this man, and we believe he's our friend." He turned to the Texan. "Yuh can consider yoreself in command here now," he added.

Modoc trembled with ungovernable anger, but, outnumbered as he was, he could say nothing. Sulkily he returned to his own wagon.

From the drivers, Kid Wolf learned a story of hardship and semi starvation. Indians had driven away their beef herd, leaving them without food. All day they had had nothing to eat, and were at the point of killing and devouring prairie dogs. The water, too, was bad—so full of alkali as nearly to be undrinkable, and as bitter as gall.

Kid Wolf lost no time in taking the situation in hand. His own provisions he turned over to the women and children of the outfit. Then he changed the course of the train so that it led toward civilization. At nightfall they made camp by a pool of fair drinking water. The outfit told him that as yet they had seen no sign of The Terror.

"Probably we won't," said one.

Kid Wolf was not so optimistic. That night he borrowed two .45 Colt revolvers from the wagon-train supplies. He selected them with extreme care, testing them by shooting at marks. So accurate was his shooting that the men of the outfit could not conceal their admiration. The first weapon he tried threw the shots an inch or two to one side, but he finally obtained a pair that worked perfectly. Then he sanded the wooden handles of the guns to roughen them slightly.

"It nevah pays to have yo' hand slip when makin' a draw," he explained.

The outfit's camp fire was shielded with canvas that night, at Kid's suggestion. On that wide plain a light showed for many miles, and it was poor policy to advertise one's position.

Tired as he was, Kid Wolf rose at midnight, after sleeping a few hours. He wanted to be sure that everything was well. Making a tour of the wagon train, he suddenly stopped in his tracks and sniffed. There was no mistaking the delicious odor. It made Kid Wolf hungry. It was frying meat. The Texan quietly aroused some of the men and led them to one of the wagons.

"I want yo'-all to see fo' yo'selves," he explained.

The wagon was Modoc's own, and they entered it. The ex-wagon-train commander had a shielded lantern burning inside, and he was in the act of eating a big supper! When he saw that he had visitors, he tried to reach the gun belt he had hung up at one end of the wagon. Kid Wolf was too quick for him.

"Yo' call yo'self a man!" he murmured in a voice filled with contempt.
"Why, a low-down coyote is a gentleman alongside of yo'. I wondered
why yo' looked so well fed, while the rest of the camp was starvin'.
Men, search this wagon!"

While Modoc swore, the search was made. It disclosed many pounds of dried beef and other provisions. It was Modoc's little private supply.

"We'll divide it up with everybody in the mohnin'," suggested the
Texan, "with a double allowance fo' the children and the women."

The wagon men were so furious at Modoc's selfishness that they could have torn him to pieces. Kid Wolf, however, prevented the trouble that was brewing.

"Every one to their blankets, men," he said. "We can't affohd to fight among ouahselves just now."

When the camp was asleep again, he took up his lonely vigil. The night was pitch black, without moon or stars. A wind whispered softly across the great Llano.

Suddenly The Kid's attention was attracted by something on the western horizon. It seemed to be in the sky—a faint red glow, across which shadows appeared to move like phantoms. Like a picture from the ghost world, it flickered for a few minutes like heat lightning, then disappeared, leaving the night as dark as before. It was a night mirage, and something more than an optical illusion. It was a rare thing on the plain. The Kid knew that it meant something. That glow was the reflection in the sky of a camp fire! Those shadows were men! The Texan quickly told his sentinels.

"I'm ridin' out to see what it is," he said. "Keep a close watch while
I'm gone. I'm on a little scoutin' pahty of mah own. It might be that
Quiroz has followed me—which I doubt. And it might be—The Terror!"

Mounting Blizzard, he was quickly swallowed up in the darkness.

CHAPTER V

THE CAMP OF THE TERROR

Kid Wolf knew that the camp fire was many miles away. He gave his horse just a touch of the spur—that was always enough for Blizzard—and they proceeded to split the wind. The horse was as sure-footed as a cat, and was not an animal to step into a prairie-dog hole, even on a black night. Blizzard had ample rest and water, and was never fresher. He ran like a greyhound.

Kid Wolf never forgot that gallop across the Llano by night. It was like running full tilt against an ever-opening velvet curtain. He could hardly see his horse's head.

Blizzard's hoofs pounded on and on across the level plateau. Miles disappeared under his flying feet, while Kid's keen eyes were fastened on the horizon ahead. Finally he made out an orange glow—a light that changed to a redder and redder hue until it became a point of fire. The Texan approached it rapidly, more and more cautious.

That was no small camp! Many men were around that flickering fire. Kid Wolf dismounted, whispering for Blizzard to remain where he was. Then, like a slinking Apache Indian, he approached on foot, making no sound. Not once did his high-heeled boots snap a weed or rustle the dried grass. He would not have been more silent had he been wearing moccasins.

There were a hundred or more men in the camp. It was a small city. Kid Wolf could hear the champing and stamping of countless restless horses, and the men were thick around the fire. A conference of some kind was being held.

The Texan approached closer and closer, all eyes and ears. If he could discover the identity of this band and something of their plans——

Suddenly a sentry rose up from the grass not a yard from him. His eyes fell upon the intruder, and his mouth flew open. In his hand was a short-barreled carbine.

The Texan seized him, dodged under the half-raised weapon and cut off the man's cry with the pressure of a muscular hand. He fought noiselessly, and the sentry—a Mexican—was no match for him. Throwing him to the ground, Kid Wolf gagged him with the man's own gayly colored scarf. Then he bound him securely, using the sentry's sash and carbine strap.

Kid Wolf exchanged his hat for the Mexican's steep-crowned sombrero and picked up the carbine. In this guise he could approach the camp with comparative safety. Pulling the sombrero over his eyes, he came in closer to the camp fire. As he did so, a trio of men—two white men and one half-breed—came into the camp from another direction. The Kid heard one of the other sentries hail the newcomers.

"What color will the moon be to-night?" was the challenge.

Thrills raced up Kid Wolf's spine. That was the question Modoc had asked him! What deep plot was behind that seemingly meaningless query? Then the Texan heard the response.

"The moon will be red!" was the countersign, and the trio passed and approached the ring around the fire.

There was no doubt now that he was in the camp of The Terror! The men outlined in the ruddy fire-light were desperadoes. Never had the Texan seen such a gathering. Some were American gunmen, evil-faced and heavily armed. Others were Mexicans and Indians. There was a tenseness in the very atmosphere. As Kid Wolf came closer to the fire, he was hailed in turn:

"What color will the moon be to-night?"

"The moon will be red," Kid Wolf replied softly.

No one paid him any attention. All eyes were on a figure near the glowing fire.

The man was talking and seemed to be in authority. He was dressed in a red Mexican coat, rich silver-trimmed pantaloons, and carried a brace of gold-mounted pistols. His face was covered with a mask of black velvet. Instinctively Kid Wolf knew that he was looking at the dread scourge of the Llano Estacado—The Terror of the Staked Plains! The bandit, then, kept himself masked even in front of his own men! Kid Wolf, as he listened, grew tense. His eyes were shining with snapping blue fire. The Terror was planning a raid upon the wagon train! His voice, cold and deadly, came to Kid Wolf's ears:

"Everything, then, caballeros, is arranged. We strike at dawn and wipe them out, sparing nobody. If a man escapes, you are all running a risk, for some of you might be identified. Man, woman, and child, they must die! Our man, of course, you all know. Do not fire on him."

Kid Wolf listened to that sinister voice and wondered what the face behind the mask looked like. The bandit leader had no more soul than a rattler, and one might expect more mercy from a wolf. And Kid Wolf already knew whom The Terror meant when he spoke of "our man." Anger shook the Texan from head to foot. He had learned enough. The bandits were already about to mount their horses in order that they might reach the wagon train at daybreak. There was no time to lose. He must get back to the helpless outfit ahead of them.

Sauntering carelessly, he slipped out of the circle about the fire and made his way out of the camp without being noticed. Once out of the range of the firelight, he raced into the darkness for his horse.

Blizzard was waiting patiently. He had not moved from his tracks. An ordinary animal might have nickered upon scenting other horses, but Blizzard had been trained otherwise. Kid Wolf leaped into the saddle, slapped his mount gently on the neck, and was swallowed up in the night as Blizzard answered the summons.

The east was a pale line against the dark of the prairie night when Blizzard drummed up to the sleeping wagon train with his rider. It still lacked a half hour until the dawn.

The Texan sent the sentries to arouse every available fighting man in the wagon train.

"Is it The Terror?" one of them questioned, paling.

"It is," replied Kid Wolf. "We must act quickly."

In a few minutes men were pouring out of the wagons, weapons in their hands. It was just light enough now to see. Modoc ran out of his wagon, strapping on his Colt .45 as he came. He advanced toward the Texan sneeringly. The others gathered about to see what would happen. Something in Kid Wolf's eyes warned them of impending trouble.

"What's the idea now?" Modoc snarled, showing his stained teeth like a wolf. "Has this four-flusher been up to his tricks again?"

Kid Wolf's voice came cool and calm. "Modoc," he drawled, "what color will the moon be to-night?"

Modoc's face went the color of putty. Like a flash, the insolence had gone out of his eyes, to be replaced with fear. He moistened his lips feverishly.

"I—I don't know what yo're talkin' about," he stammered.

"Are yo' sure," said Kid Wolf with deadly quietness, "that the moon won't be red?"

Modoc began to tremble like a leaf. His gun hand moved part way to his hip, then stopped. Beads of perspiration stood out on his clammy forehead.

"Afraid to draw like a man?" the Texan drawled. "I wouldn't doubt it.
Men, this man is a betrayah. He is one of The Terror's bandits.
That's why he led yo' off the track. He brought yo' here to die like
rats."

Modoc's face was blue-white as Kid Wolf continued:

"When I first showed up, Modoc thought I might be one of The Terror's messengahs. I didn't come through with the password, and he learned different. I didn't know what he meant, then, but I know now!"

The wagon men surged around Modoc threateningly. Fury was written over the faces of them all. There were cries of "Kill him!" "Hang the traitor!"

Kid Wolf still faced the fear-frozen Modoc, smiling coolly. There was quiet menace in that easy smile.

"I usually shoot the head off a rattlesnake when I see one," he said softly. "One day, yeahs ago, a rattlah killed a favorite dawg of mine. I blew that snake apart, bit by bit. Modoc, that snake was a gentleman alongside of yo'. I'm givin' yo' an even chance to kill me. Fill yo' hand!"

Modoc, with a wheezing, gasping breath, decided upon action. His hand streaked for his hip. But Kid Wolf had drawn a split second later and more than a split second faster. The fingers of his right hand closed upon the handle of one of his twin Colts. In the same instant, fire flew!

With the first explosion, Modoc grunted with pain, dropping his gun. The bullet had caught him squarely in the wrist, rendering his fingers useless. But Kid Wolf kept firing, although he did not aim for Modoc's head or body. His gun flashed and stuttered twice, three times, four—five—six! Dust flew from Modoc's coat sleeve as the bullets landed with a series of terrific smashes. As he had torn the rattlesnake bit by bit, Kid Wolf ripped Modoc's gun arm.

Each bullet took effect, and Modoc staggered from the impacts, knees slumping to the ground. The traitor would never use that gun arm again. It dangled from his body, broken and useless. The others would have literally torn Modoc limb from limb had not the Texan ordered otherwise.

"He doesn't deserve hangin'," he said, "so let him be. We've got work to do. The Terror and his gang will be here at any minute. Now listen carefully to what I say."

Quietly he gave his orders, and just as carefully, the wagon men carried them out. Under Kid Wolf's masterly leadership they had regained their nerve. Panic left them, and they became grim and determined.

The Kid learned that there were thirty-four men in the outfit. Thirty-four against at least a hundred! The odds were great, but the Texan had faced greater ones alone. With the train in the hands of Modoc—one of their own men—the marauders expected to take the outfit by surprise. Thanks to the Texan, all that was changed now. He gave orders that the wagons be shifted into a circle, with the children and women on the inside behind shelter. The men were posted in the wagons and behind them, Kid Wolf giving each man his station.

"Do not fiah until I give the coyote yell," he said. "And then keep yo' sights down. Shoot low!"

Kid Wolf himself took a position between two of the covered wagons, his horse Blizzard within quick call. In the narrow chink, just wide enough for him to ride his horse through, he placed three loaded Sharps .50-caliber rifles, ready for quick use.

They had not long to wait. Only a few minutes had elapsed after the wagons had been shifted when Kid Wolf saw a body of horsemen approaching from the west. It was The Terror's band! Dust stirred by the hoofs of a hundred galloping horses rose in the air like brown thunderclouds.

As the grim defenders watched, the band split up, divided into two rapidly moving lines, and began to surround the train in a sweeping circle. The circle formed, began to close in. Kid Wolf peered along the barrel of one of the Sharps rifles. Then, after what seemed minutes, he uttered his coyote cry:

"Yip, yip, yip-ee!"

It was followed by a terrific burst of fire from the wagon train. The signal had been given at the opportune time. The bandits faltered. They hadn't expected this! The Terror had hoped to find the wagon train still asleep and defenseless. The rolling powder smoke cleared away somewhat, and it could be seen that a dozen or more of the attackers had melted out of their saddles, like butter on a hot stove.

But the raiders, outnumbering the defenders and realizing it, still came on. Kid Wolf threw aside the rifle and drew his twin .45s. Deliberately stepping out into the open, he fanned the hammers from the level of his hip. His waistline, as he swung the thundering Colts from side to side, seemed to be alive with sputtering red sparks. Smoke rolled around him. The bandits in front of him dropped by twos and threes.

Holes appeared in this side of the bandits' circle—holes that did not close up. Riderless mounts dashed about frantically, their reins trailing; wounded horses added to the uproar with their death screams. It was a battle!

Seeing that the force of the charge had been broken on this flank, Kid Wolf ran across to reenforce the other sides of the circle. At one point the outlaws had already broken through the circle of wagons. Kid Wolf sent three screaming slugs toward them, and they fell back in disorder, leaving one desperado stretched out behind them.

Reloading his guns, Kid Wolf climbed upon one of the wagons and again opened fire; this time with such an effect that all sides of the attacking circle began to break and fall back to safety. Mere force of numbers does not always count in a gun fight. Not more than half a dozen of the defenders had been hit. The survivors raised a hearty cheer. Kid Wolf's generalship had beaten back the first outlaw charge!

It was then that Modoc played his final card. Hoping to gain the protection of the outlaws, and fearing the wagon train's vengeance, he slipped out of the circle of covered wagons and, on foot, began running. His goal was ahead of him, but he never reached it. His late comrades—the bandits—evidently thought he had played the traitor with them, for they fired on him relentlessly. He fell, then rose again to scramble on. Bullets kicked up the sod around him. Others plumped into his body. Again he fell, this time to stay. His body was riddled with scores of bullets. So died the traitor.

Kid Wolf knew that a certain advantage always lies with the offensive. Defenders haven't the power of attackers. The Texan decided to risk a counter-charge. He knew that it might break down the courage of the bandit band. At least it would be a surprise. He called for volunteers.

"I want a dozen men who can shoot straight from the back of a runnin' hoss," he said. "It'll be dangerous. Who's with me?"

Immediately more men than he wanted spoke up. Quickly choosing twelve, he gave them their orders.

"At the next chahge," the Texan drawled, "we'll ride out theah and give 'em somethin' to think about. If I'm right, I think they'll scattah. If I'm wrong—well, they'll probably wipe us out. Are yo' game?"

The men were game, as the Texan soon found out. They were fighting for their families, as well as their own lives and possessions.

Again the attacking line of horsemen formed, and in a cloud of dust, they came at the wagon train. Their bullets cut slashes in the covered-wagon tops, smashed into wheels and wagon trees, and kicked up geysers of sand. They would be hard to stop this time!

But Kid Wolf gave the word for his own charge. He had several reasons for doing this. It amounted to folly in the eyes of some, but the Texan knew the value of a countercharge. And if he could bring down The Terror himself, he knew the battle was as good as won. Out of the wagon circle they came, saddle leather creaking and guns blazing! The Kid, on his snow-white charger, was in the lead. A lane opened in the bandit ranks as if by magic.

Kid Wolf pressed his quick advantage. His movement had taken the outlaw band by surprise. The utter recklessness of it shook their nerve.

Two of the wagon men fell. The others kept on, clearing a swathe with their sputtering Colts.

The bandits hesitated. The defenders who had remained behind the wagons kept up their deadly barrage. They were dropping accurately placed shots where they would be sure to do the most good. Then The Terror's band retreated, broke formation. The retreat became a rout—a mad get-away with every man for himself. Outnumbered as they were, the defenders were making more than a good account of themselves.

Kid Wolf's eyes sought for The Terror himself—and found him. His red coat and gay trappings were easy to locate, even in that mad stampede. The bandit chief was attempting to make his get-away. The Texan, however, cut him off after a hard, furious ride.

Separated from his men, The Terror turned in his saddle, wildly attempting to get the drop on Kid Wolf as he came in. One of his gold-mounted pistols flashed. The bullet hissed over the Texan's head. He had dropped low in the saddle.

The Terror whirled his horse at Kid Wolf's. He realized that it was a fight to the end. He fired his other weapon almost in the Texan's face. The Kid, however, had pulled the trigger of his own gun just a fraction of a second before. The Terror's aim was spoiled just enough so that the bullet whined wide. The bandit chief collapsed in his saddle. He had been hit in the shoulder.

The Texan closed in. There was a violent shock as Blizzard thudded into the bandit's horse. The Terror, eyes glittering wickedly through the openings in his velvet mask, slid from his horse, landing feet first. With a glittering knife in his unwounded hand, he made a spring toward Kid Wolf. The blade would have buried itself in the Texan's thigh had not The Kid whirled his horse just in time.

"All right," said the Texan coolly. "We have it out with ouah hands."

Holstering his guns, he leaped from his horse. He scorned even to use his bowie knife, as he advanced toward the bandit at a half crouch. The Terror thought he had the advantage. The Kid's hands were bare of any weapons. With a snarl, the bandit chief leaped forward, knife swishing aloft. Never had Kid Wolf struck so hard a blow as he struck then! Added to the power of his own tremendous strength and leverage was The Terror's own speed as he lunged in. Fist met jaw with a sickening thud.

The Terror was a big and heavy man. His weight was added to Kid Wolf's as both men came together. There was a snap as his head went back—went back at too great an angle. His neck was broken instantly. Without a moan, the bandit chief dropped limply to the sand, dead before he ever reached it!

Kid Wolf took a deep breath. Then he bent over the fallen man and jerked the velvet mask from his features. He gasped in amazement. It was Quiroz! For a moment the Texan could not believe his eyes. Then the truth began to dawn on him. The Terror and the tyrannical governor of Santa Fe were one and the same! Quiroz had led a double life for years, and had covered his tracks well. So powerful had he become that he had received the appointment as governor. No wonder he had refused Kid Wolf aid! And no wonder he had sought his life!

"Well, I guess his account is paid," said Kid Wolf grimly. "The Terror of the Staked Plains is no more."

He looked about him. The remainder of the bandits had made a thorough retreat, leaving a large number of their companions on the plain behind them. Their defeat had been complete and decisive.

"Bueno," said Kid Wolf.

"Oh, the cows stampede on the Rio Grande!
The Rio!
The sand do blow, and the winds do wail,
But I want to be wheah the cactus stands!
The Rio!
And the rattlesnake shakes his ornery tail!"

The buckskin-clad singer raised his hat in happy farewell. The people of the wagon train answered his shout:

"Shore yo' won't go on with us?"

"We shore thank yuh for what yuh done, Kid!"

Others took up the cry. They hated to lose this smiling young Texan's company. He had saved them from death—and worse. Not only that, but they had learned to like him and depend on him.

The Texan, however, declined to stay longer. Nor would he listen to any thanks.

"Adios," he called, "and good luck! Wheahevah the weakah side needs a champion, theah yo'll find Kid Wolf. Somehow I always find lots to do. Heah's hopin' yo' won't evah need mah services again."

He caught sight of a golden-haired child beaming at him from one of the wagons.

"Good-by, Jimmy Lee!" he called.

He whirled in his saddle, touched Blizzard with the reins, and rode away at a long lope.

CHAPTER VI

ON THE CHISHOLM TRAIL

From the sweeps of high country bordering close upon Santa Fe, it was no easy journey to the Chisholm Trail, even for a trail-eating horse of Blizzard's caliber. But The Kid had taken his time. His ultimate destination, unless fate altered his plans, was his own homeland—the sandy Rio Grande country.

More than anything else, it was the thirst for adventure that led the buckskin-clad rider to the beaten cattle road which cut through wilderness and prairie from Austin to the western Kansas beef markets.

And now, after following the trail for one uneventful day, Kid Wolf had left it—in search of water. A line of lofty cottonwoods on the eastern horizon marked the course of a meandering stream and The Kid had been glad of the chance to turn Blizzard's head toward it. Horse and rider, framed in the intense blue of the western sky, formed a picture of beauty and grace as they drummed through the unmarked wastes. The Kid, riding "light" in his saddle, his supple body rising and falling with the rhythm of his loping mount and yet firm in his seat, dominated that picture. His face was tanned to the color of the buckskin shirt he wore, and a vast experience, born of hardship and danger on desert and mountain, was in his eyes—eyes that were sometimes gray and sometimes steely blue. Just now they were as carefree as the skies above.

A stranger might have wondered just what Kid Wolf's business was. He did not appear to be a cow-puncher, or a trapper or an army scout. A reata was coiled at his saddle, and two big Colts swung from a beaded Indian belt. No matter how curious the stranger might be, he would have thought twice before asking questions.

The horse, in color like snow with the sun on it, was splitting the breeze—and yet the stride was easy and tireless. Blizzard, big and immensely strong, was as fast as the winds that swept the Panhandle.

The stream, Kid Wolf discovered, was a fairly large creek bordered with a wild tangle of bushes, vines, and creeper-infested trees. It was no easy matter to force one's way through the choked growth, especially without making a great deal of noise.

But The Kid never believed in advertising his presence unnecessarily. He had the uncanny Apache trick of slipping silently through underbrush, even while on horseback. The country of the Indian Nations, at that time, was a territory infested with peril. And even now, although he seemed to be alone on the prairie, he was cautious.

Some distance before he reached it, he saw the creek, swollen and brown from rains above. So quiet was his approach that even a water moccasin, sunning itself on the river bank, did not see him.

Suddenly the white horse pricked up its ears. Kid Wolf, too, had heard the sound, and he pulled up his mount to watch and listen, still as a statue.

Splash! Splash! A rider was bringing his horse down to the creek at a walk. The sounds came from above and from across the stream. The water on that side had overflowed its bank and lay across the sand in blue puddles. In a few minutes Kid Wolf caught sight of a man on a strawberry roan, coming at a leisurely gait. As it was a white man, and apparently a cattleman, The Kid's vigilance relaxed a little.

In another moment, though, his heart gave a jump. And then, even before his quick muscles could act in time to save the newcomer it had happened. From behind a bush clump, a figure had popped up, rifle leveled. A thin jet of flame spat out of the rusty gun barrel, followed by a cracking report and a little burst of steaming smoke.

The man on the strawberry roan lurched wildly, groaned, and pitched headlong from his saddle, landing in the creek edge with a loud splash. One foot still stuck in a stirrup, and for a few yards the frightened pony dragged him through the muddied water. Then something gave way, and the murdered man plumped into the water and disappeared.

The killer stood on his feet, upright. He laughed—a chilling, mirthless rattle—and began to reload his old-pattern rifle. He was a half-breed Indian. The dying sun glistened on his coppery, strongly muscled flesh, for he was stripped to the waist. He wore trousers and a hat, but his hair hung nearly to his shoulders in a coarse snarl, and his feet were shod with dirty moccasins.

Kid Wolf's eyes crackled. He had seen deliberate murder committed, an unsuspecting man shot down from ambush. His voice rang out:

"Drop that rifle and put up yo' hands!"

The soft drawl of the South was in his accents, but there was nothing soft about his tone. The half-breed whirled about, then slowly loosened his hold on his gun. It thudded to the grass. On a line with his bare chest was one of Kid Wolf's big-framed .45s.

The snaky eyes of the half-breed were filled with panic, but as The Kid did not shoot or seem to be about to do so, they began to glitter with mockery. Kid Wolf dismounted, keeping his gun leveled.

"Why did yo' shoot that man?" he demanded.

The half-breed was sullenly silent for a long moment. "What yuh do about it?" he sneered finally.

Kid Wolf's smile was deadly. His answer took the murderer by surprise.
The half-breed suddenly found his throat grasped in a grip of steel.
The fingers tightened relentlessly. The Indian's beady eyes began to
bulge; his tongue protruded. With all his strength he struggled, but
Kid Wolf handled him with one arm, as easily as if he had been a child!

"Yo're goin' to answer fo' yo' crime—that's what I'm goin' to do about it!" The Kid declared.

The half-breed's yell was wild and unearthly, when the grip at his throat was released. All the fight was taken out of him. Kid Wolf shook him until his teeth rattled, picked him up bodily and hurled him across his saddle.

"I'm takin' yo' to the law," he drawled. "I might kill yo' now and be justified, too. But I believe in doin' things in the right way."

At the mention of "law," the half-breed snarled contemptuously.

"Ain't no law," he grunted, "southwest o' Dodge. Yuh no take me there.
Too far."

Kid Wolf knew that the killer was right. Still, on the prairie, men make their own commandments.

"Theah's a new town, I hear, not far from heah—Midway, I think they call it," he drawled. "Yo're goin' theah with me, and if theah's no law in Midway, I'll see that some laws are passed. And yo' won't need that, eithah!" he added suddenly.

The knife that the half-breed had attempted to draw tinkled to the ground as The Kid gave the treacherous wrist a quick twist.

"Step along, Blizzahd," sang out Kid Wolf in his Southern drawl. "Back to the trail, as soon as we get a drink of watah, then no'th!"

At the mention of Midway, the half-breed's expression had changed to one of snakelike cunning. But if The Kid noted his half-concealed smile, he paid no attention to it. They were soon on their way.

Always, even in the savage lands beyond civilization, Kid Wolf tried to take sides with the weak against the strong, with the right against the wrong. And on more than one occasion he had found himself in hot water because of it.

The average man of the plains, upon seeing the murder committed, would have considered it none of his business, and would have let well enough alone. Another type would have killed the half-breed on general principles. Kid Wolf however, determined that the murderer would be given a fair trial and then punished.

Again striking the Chisholm Trail—a well-beaten road several hundred yards wide—he veered north. Thousands upon thousands of longhorns from Texas and New Mexico had beaten that trail. This was the halfway point. Kid Wolf had heard of a new settlement in the vicinity, and, judging from the landmarks, he estimated it to be only a few miles distant.

In the meantime, the sun went down, creeping over the level horizon to leave the world in shadows which gradually deepened into dusk. All the while, the half-breed maintained a stoical silence. Kid Wolf, keeping a careful eye on him, but ignoring him otherwise, hummed a fragment of song:

"Oh, theah's hombres poison mean, on the Rio!
And theah's deadly men at Dodge, no'th o' Rio!
And to-day, from what I've seen,
Theah's some bad ones in between,
And I aim to keep it clean, beyond the Rio!"

Stars began to twinkle cheerily in the black vault overhead. Then The
Kid made out a few points of yellow light on the plain ahead of them.

"That must be Midway," he mused to himself. "Those aren't stahs, or camp fiahs. Oil lamps mean a settlement."

Camps of any size were few and far between on the old Chisholm Trail. The moon was creeping up as Kid Wolf and his prisoner arrived, and by its light, as well as the few lights of the town, he could see that the word "town" flattered the place known as "Midway."

There were a few scattered sod houses, and on the one street were two large buildings, facing each other on opposite sides of the road. The first was a saloon, brilliantly lighted in comparison to the semidarkness of the other, which seemed to be a general store. A sign above it read:

THE IDEL HOUR SALOONE

Below it, in similar letters, the following was spelled out, or rather misspelled:

JACK HARDY OWNER AND PROPRIATER

As the only life of Midway seemed to be centered here, Kid Wolf drew up his horse, Blizzard, dismounted, and dragged his prisoner to the swinging green doors that opened into the Idle Hour Saloon.

Pushing the half-breed through by main strength, he found himself in a big room, lighted by three oil lamps and reflectors suspended from beams in the roof. For all the haze of tobacco smoke, the place was agleam with light. For a moment Kid Wolf stood still in astonishment.

To find such a group of men together at one place, and especially such a remote place, was surprising. A score or more of booted-and-spurred loungers were at the bar and at the gambling tables. A roulette wheel was spinning at full clip, its little ivory ball dancing merrily, and at other tables were layouts of faro and various games of chance. Cards were being riffled briskly at a poker game near the door, and a little knot of men were in a corner playing California Jack.

Kid Wolf took in these details at a glance. What puzzled him was that these men did not appear to be cattlemen or followers of any calling, unless possibly it was the profession of the six-gun. All were heavily armed, and although that fact in itself was by no means unusual, The Kid did not like the looks of several of the men he saw there. Some were half-breeds of his prisoner's own stripe.

At The Kid's entrance with his still-struggling prisoner, every one stared. The bartender—a bulky fellow with a scarred face—paused in the act of pouring a drink, his eyes widening. The quiet shuffle of cards ceased, the wheel of fortune slowed to a clicking stop, and every one looked up in sudden silence.

Kid Wolf dragged the half-breed to the center of the room, holding him by the scruff of the neck.

"Men," he said quietly, "this man is a murderah!" In a few more words, he told the gathering what had happened.

From the very first, something seemed to warn The Kid of approaching trouble. Was it his imagination, or was a look flashed between the half-breed and several of the men in the room? He sensed an alert tenseness in the faces of those who were listening. One of the men, whom the Kid immediately put down as the owner of the saloon—Jack Hardy—was staring insolently.

Hardy was flashily dressed, wearing fancy-stitched riding boots, a fancy vest, and a short black coat, under which peeped the butt of a silver-mounted .44. Kid Wolf's intuition told him that he was the man he must eventually deal with.

The saloon owner had been watching the faro game. Now, having heard Kid Wolf out, he turned his back and deliberately faced the layout again.

"Go on with the game," he sneered to the dealer.

There was a world of contempt in his silky voice, and Kid Wolf flushed under his tan. Hardy pretended to ignore the visitor completely. The faro dealer slid one card and then another from his box; the case keeper moved a button or two on his rack. Then the dealer raked in the winnings from the losers. The game was going on as usual. The gamblers, taking their cue from Jack Hardy, turned to their games again. It was as if Kid Wolf had never existed.

The Kid took a firmer hold on the wriggling half-breed. "Do yo' know this man?" he demanded of the proprietor.

Hardy turned in annoyance, his black brows elevated sarcastically.

"It's 'Tucumcari Pete,'" he mocked. "What is it to yuh?"

Looking at the faro lookout, perched on his high stool, he winked. The lookout returned it knowingly.

Kid Wolf's eyes blazed. He had told his story so that all could hear. None had paid it any attention. All these men, then, were dishonest and unfriendly toward law and order.

"I want yo' to understand me," he said in a voice he tried to make patient. "This hombre—Tucumcari Pete, yo've called him—shot and killed a man from ambush. Isn't there any law heah?"

With long, tapered fingers, Jack Hardy rolled a cigarette, placed it between his lips and leered insultingly.

"There's only one law in Midway," he laughed evilly, "and that law is that all strangers must attend to their own business. Now I don't know who yuh are, but——"

"I'm Kid Wolf," came the soft-spoken drawl, "from Texas. My enemies usually call me by mah last name."

A man brushed near the Kid; his eye caught the Texan's significantly. But instead of speaking, he merely thrust a wadded cigarette paper in the Kid's hand as he passed by. So quickly was it done that nobody, it seemed just then, had seen the movement. Kid Wolf's heart gave a little leap. There was some mystery here! If he had made a friend, was that friend afraid to speak to him? Was there a note in that paper ball?

Hardy's eyes met the Texan's. They were insect eyes, beady and glittering black.

"All right," he snarled. "Mr. Wolf, you clear out!"

The Texan's fiery Southern temper had reached its breaking point. It snapped. In a twinkling, things were happening. Using quick, almost superhuman strength, he picked up the half-breed by the neck and one leg and hurled him, like a thunderbolt, into the group at the faro table!

Tucumcari Pete's wild yell was drowned out by the tremendous crash of splintering wood and thudding flesh, as the half-breed's body hurtled through the air to smash Jack Hardy down to the floor with the impact.

The table went into kindling wood; chips and markers flew! A chair banged against the lookout's high perch, just as he was bringing his sawed-off shotgun to his shoulder.

Br-r-r-ram, bang! The double charge went into the ceiling, as the lookout toppled to the floor to join his companions, now a mass of waving arms and legs.

Kid Wolf's twin .45s had come out as if by magic. He ducked low. He did not need eyes in the back of his head to know that the men at the bar would open fire at the drop of the hat! A bullet winged venomously over him. Another one whined three inches from his ear. At the same instant, a bottle, hurled by the bartender, smashed to fragments against the wall.

But with one quick spring, Kid Wolf had his back against the green-shuttered door. For the first time, his Colts splattered red flame and smoke. There were three distinct reports, but they came so rapidly that they blended into one sullen, ear-shattering roar. He had aimed at the swinging lamps, and they went out so quickly that it seemed they had been extinguished by the force of one giant breath. Glass tinkled on the saloon floor, and all was wrapped in darkness. The Texan's voice rang out like the clang of steel on granite:

"Yo're goin' to have law! Kid Wolf law—and yo' may not like it as well as the othah kind!"

A score of revolver slugs, aimed at the sound of his voice, sent showers of splinters flying from the green-shuttered doors. The Texan, though, had taken care not to remain in the line of fire.

When the inmates of the Idle Hour swarmed out, looking for vengeance, they were disappointed. Kid Wolf and his horse, Blizzard, were nowhere to be seen!

CHAPTER VII

M'CAY'S RECRUIT

The Texan, after circling the town of Midway, rode in again. It was not his way to leave a job unfinished, with only a threat behind. The cigarette-paper note had aroused his curiosity to a fever heat. He read it by the light of the moon. It consisted of three pencil-scrawled words:

GO CROSS STREET

Across the wide street from the saloon, there was but one building. Was it here that he was to go? Was it a trap of some kind? He dismissed the latter possibility and decided to go at once to the big frame general store, using all the caution possible.

Approaching the place from behind, he looked it over carefully before dismounting. As Blizzard was conspicuous in the moonlight, he left him in a thick clump of bushes and slipped through the shadows on foot. As he neared the building, he discovered that it was not merely of frame, as he had at first thought. The boards in front masked a fortress of logs. It was so planned that a handful of defenders might hold it against great odds.

As Kid Wolf knocked softly on the rear door, he wondered if it had been built merely as a security against the renegade Indians, or for some other and deeper purpose. For a few minutes after he knocked, there was silence, then the door slowly opened. The Texan found himself looking into the barrel of a .45!

"What do yuh want here?"

Framed in the doorway, the Kid saw a grim young face glaring at him over the sights of the six-gun.

"Speak quick!" said the voice again.

"I will," the Texan said, "if yo'll kindly take that .45 out of my eye.
I can talk bettah when I'm not usin' yo' gun barrel fo' a telescope."

"That gun," said the other sharply, "is goin' to stay just where I've got it!"

But it didn't. Kid Wolf's left hand snapped up under the gun and rapped smartly at just the right spot the wrist that held it. It was a trick blow—one that paralyzed the nerves for a second. The Colt dropped from the boy's quickly extended fingers and fell neatly into Kid Wolf's right hand! All had happened so quickly that the youth hadn't time to squeeze the trigger. Before the amazed young man could recover himself, the Texan handed over the gun, butt first.

"Here yo' are," he drawled humorously. "To show yo' I mean well, I'm givin' it back. I do wish, though, that yo'd kindly point it some other way while I'm talkin'."

The manner of the other changed at this. After losing his gun, he had expected a quick bullet.

"Guess yo're all right," he grinned slowly. "Come on in."

Passing through the door, Kid Wolf noted the thick loophole-pierced walls and other provisions for defense. Rifles stood on their stocks at intervals, ready to be snatched up at a moment's notice.

"Oh, dad!" the youth called in a low voice, as they entered the big main room of the building.

Six men were in the place, and The Kid took stock of them with one appraising glance. Although just as heavily armed as the faction across the street in the Idle Hour had been, they were of a different type. They were cattlemen, some old, some young. All looked up, startled. One of them got to his feet. He was a huge man and very fat. His face was round and good-humored, although his puckered blue eyes told of force and character.

"What's the matter, 'Tip'?" he asked of Kid Wolf's escort. "Who is this man?"

The Texan smiled and bowed courteously. "Maybe I should explain, sah," he drawled. "And aftah I'm done, perhaps yo'll have some information to give me."

He began his story, but was soon interrupted by an exclamation of anger and grief from the boy's father.

"A man on a strawberry roan, yuh say? And murdered! Why, that was
Hodgson—one of my best men! Go on, young man! Go on with yore story!"

In a few words, the Texan told of bringing the half-breed to the saloon across the street, and of his reception there.

"They-all told me to cleah out," he finished whimsically, "so I cleahed out the Idle Hour. Or rathah, I got the job started. Some one theah," he added, "handed me this note. That's why I'm heah."

The big man looked at it, and his face lighted. "A short fella gave yuh that? I thought so! That was George Durham—one o' my men. He's there as a spy."

"As a spy?" the Texan repeated blankly. "I'm afraid this is gettin' too deep fo' me, Mistah——"

"McCay is the name. 'Old Beef McCay, they call me," he chuckled.
"This lad, yuh've already met. He's Tip McCay, and my son. And you?"

"Kid Wolf, sah, from Texas—just 'Kid' to my friends."

The five punchers, who had been listening with intense interest to the
Texan's story, came forward to shake hands. They were introduced as
Caldwell, Anderson, Blake, Terry White, and "Scotty." All were
keen-eyed, resolute men.

"Now I'll tell yuh what this is all about," said the elder McCay. "When I spoke of a spy, I meant that Durham is there to see if he can find out why Jack Hardy has imported those gunmen, and what he plans to do. Yuh see, I'm a cattle buyer. At this halfway point I buy lots o' herds from owners who don't wish to drive 'em through to Dodge. Then I sell 'em there at a profit—when I can."

"And Jack Hahdy?" drawled the Texan.

"Hardy is nothin' more or less than a cattle rustler—a dealer in stolen herds on a large scale. He's swore to get me, at the time when it'll do him the most good. In other words, at the time when he can get the most loot.

"So far," McCay went on, "there's been no bloodshed. To-day it seems he's had Hodgson murdered. Looks as if things are about ripe for war!"

"He seems to have mo' men than yo'," murmured Kid Wolf.

"Yuh don't know the half of it. A dozen more of his hired gunmen rode south on the Chisholm Trail this mornin'."

"What does that signify?"

"Plenty," McCay explained. "Six o' my men are drivin' fifteen hundred steers up this way. Quite a haul, yuh see, for Hardy. They're due here tonight. If they don't get here——" The big man's wide mouth hardened.

"But I'm afraid I'm a poor host," he added apologetically. "Yuh'll have supper and stay the night with us, I'm sure. Tip, you an' Scotty go out and bring in The Kid's hoss."

The Texan consented, thanking him, and all began to make preparations for the night. The big general store seemed more like a fort in time of war than anything else. Some of the men slept on the counters in the main room. A place was made for Kid Wolf in the rear. Sentries were on watch during the entire night, which passed uneventfully.

In the morning, just as the dawn was glowing in the east, the Texan was awakened by a horrified cry. All rushed to the front windows. Across the wide street, over the Idle Hour Saloon, a man was dangling, suspended from the roof by a rope! It was Durham—the man who had given Kid Wolf the cigarette-paper note. Some one had seen him in the act, and the fiends had lynched him.

"That settles it," said Kid Wolf grimly, turning to McCay. "I reckon
I'm throwin' in with yo'. My guns are at yo' service!"

It was a situation not uncommon in that wilderness where "the law isn't, and the six-shooter is." Kid Wolf, however, had never seen a bolder attempt to trample on the rights of honest men. His veins beat hot at the thought of it. And Jack Hardy seemed to have the power to see it through to its murderous end.

It was not long after the discovery of Durham's murder when Tip McCay brought in a new note that had been pinned to the door.

"It was put there durin' the night some time, probably by one o' Hardy's sneakin' half-breeds, because none o' our sentries saw any one the whole night through," Tip said.

The note was roughly penciled on a sheet of yellow paper, and the message it carried was significant:

Ef yu will all walk out of their without yore guns we promiss no harm will com to yu. Ef yuh dont, we will get yu to the last man. We alreddy got yore cattel. This offer dont go fer Kid Wolf. We no hes their and we aim to kill him!

"They don't like me." The Texan laughed. "Well, I don't want 'em to.
What do yo' intend to do, sah?"

The elder McCay's face was very red. His fingers, as he tore the insolent letter to bits, were trembling with anger.

"I say let 'em hop to it!" he jerked out. "I ain't givin' in to anybody!"

The others cheered. And it was a fighting group of men who gathered for a conference as to the defense of the store. It was agreed that their position was a serious one, outnumbered as they were.

Just how serious, they soon found out, for at the rising of the sun—as if it had been a signal—a burst of gunfire blazed out from the saloon across the street. Splinters flew from the logs as bullets thudded into them. Several whined through the two windows and crashed into the wall.

Kid Wolf took an active part in quickly getting ready for a stand. The windows and the doors were heavily barricaded, at his suggestion. Sacks of flour, salt, and other supplies were piled over the openings, as these were best for stopping lead. Mattresses were stuffed behind the barricade for further protection, and just enough space was left clear to allow a gun to be aimed through.

The volley from the Idle Hour had injured no one. The firing continued more or less steadily, however, and an occasional slug ripped its way between the logs. Jack Hardy's gang were firing at the chinks.

Up until this time, the defenders had not fired a shot. Even now, after the preparations had been made, Kid Wolf advised against wasting ammunition. The rustler gang were firing from the cover of the saloon, and were well protected.

"Hunt up all the guns heah," the Kid cried, "and load 'em. If they rush us, we'll need to shoot fast!"

Several rifles were hunted up—Winchesters and two muzzle-loading Sharps .50s. There were also a powder-and-ball buffalo gun of the old pattern, and, to Kid Wolf's delight, a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun.

In the light of the early morning, each detail of the grim scene was brought out minutely. It was a picture Kid Wolf never forgot! Across the street that formed the No Man's Land was the saloon, wreathed in powder smoke, as guns spat sullen flame. And swinging slightly above the splintered green-shuttered doors was the dead body of Durham, neck stretched horribly, head on breast. It seemed a grotesque phantom, warning them of death to come.

The horses had been run into the back of the store itself, as a protection against flying bullets. Kid Wolf suggested that they be saddled, so that they would be ready for use if occasion demanded it.

"We might have to make a run fo' it at any time," he warned.

The firing from the saloon went on for nearly an hour. Then there was a sudden lull.

"Look out now!" The Kid exclaimed. "Looks like they mean to rush us!"

"We'll cure 'em o' that!" Old Beef McCay cried grimly. He picked up the sawed-off shotgun.

The Texan was right. A yell went up from the saloon, and a dozen men rushed out, firing as they came. Six others carried a heavy beam, evidently torn from the interior of the Idle Hour. It was their intention to use this as a battering-ram to smash in the door of the store.

The cry from the defenders was "Let 'em have it!"

The terrific thunder of the shotgun and the buffalo rifle blended with the loud roar of six-guns. Hammers fell with deadly regularity. Fire blazed from every loophole and shooting space.

When the smoke cleared away, Tip McCay emitted a whoop that the others echoed. The charge had been stopped, and very effectively. The big beam lay on the ground, with the writhing bodies of four men around it. The "scatter gun" had accounted for three of them; Kid Wolf had put the other out of business with bullets through both legs. A little to one side were two more of the outlaws, one of whom had been brought down by Tip McCay, the other by the lantern-jawed, slow-spoken plainsman known as Scotty. The others had beaten a quick retreat to the shelter of the saloon.

CHAPTER VIII

ONE GAME HOMBRE

Hardy's gang did not attempt another rush. They had learned their lesson. Keeping under cover, they continued firing steadily, however, and their bullets began to do damage. Every crack and chink was a target.

In the afternoon, more riders arrived to swell the Hardy faction. Some were ugly, half-clothed Indians, armed with rusty guns and bows and arrows. The odds were steadily increasing.

As there was ample food and water in the storehouse to last for several days, the besieged had no worries on that score. McCay knew, though, and Kid Wolf realized, that nightfall would bring trouble. Hardy was stung now by the loss of several men, and he would not do things by halves. He would show no mercy.

The first casualty took place in midafternoon. Anderson, in the act of aiming his revolver through a loophole, was hit between the eyes by a bullet and instantly killed. The number of men defending the store was now cut down to seven.

Toward nightfall, tragedy overtook them, full force. Old Beef McCay was in the act of reloading a gun when a treacherous bullet zipped spitefully through an opening between two logs and caught him low in the chest. The impact sent him staggering against the wall, his round, moonlike face white and drawn.

"Dad!" called out Tip, in an agony of grief.

He and Kid Wolf rushed to the wounded man, supporting his great weight as it slowly sagged.

"Got me—son!" the cattleman jerked out.

Quickly the Texan tore away his shirt. He did not have to examine the wound to see how deadly it was; one glance was enough. Shot a few inches under the heart, McCay was dying on his feet.

"I'm done—all right," he grunted. "Listen, Tip. And you, Kid Wolf. I know yo're a true-blue friend. I want yuh to recover those cattle, if yuh ever get out of here alive. Yuh promise to try?" He turned glazing eyes at the Texan. "The cattle should go—to Tip's mother. She's in Dodge City."

"Believe me, sah," promised Kid Wolf earnestly, "if we evah get out of this trap alive, Tip and I will do ouah best."

The stricken man's face lighted. He grasped his son, Tip, with one hand, the Texan with the other.

"I'll pass on easier now."

Suddenly he drew himself up to his full height of well over six feet, squared his enormous shoulders, and with crimson welling from his wound, walked firmly and steadily to the door and began kicking the barricade aside.

"What are yuh doin'?" one of the defenders cried, thinking he was delirious from his hurt.

McCay, fighting against the weakness that threatened to overcome him, turned with a smile, grim and terrible.

"I'm goin' out there," he said, "to take some of those devils—with me!"

In vain Kid Wolf and Tip attempted to restrain him. The old man waved them back.

"I'm done for, anyway," he said. "I haven't got ten minutes to live. What if they do fill me with lead? I'll get one or two while they're doin' it!"

He seemed stronger now than ever. Sheer will power was keeping him on his feet. Seizing two revolvers, one in each big fist, he wabbled through the door.

With horror-widened eyes, they watched his reeling progress. He faltered to the hitch rack with bullets humming all around him. He clung to it for a moment, then went on, stalking toward the Idle Hour like grim vengeance! His guns sputtered red fire and bursts of black powder smoke. Hit time after time—they could see the dust fly from his clothing as he staggered along under the dreadful impacts—he kept going. It was glorious, terrible!

Tip hid his eyes, with a despairing cry. Kid Wolf watched, his face white under his sunburn.

Up to the very door of the Hardy refuge, the old man walked, his guns hammering claps of thunder. Hit several times in the body, he sprawled once and fell, but was on his feet again before the smoke drifted away. He plunged through the door, and The Kid saw two men drop under his blazing guns. Then McCay, too, fell—for the last time.

"Yo' dad was one game hombre, Tip," murmured the Texan, putting a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let's hope that when ouah turn comes, we can go as bravely."

He had never seen such an exhibition of undaunted courage. Although the tragedy had clutched at his heart, the spectacle had thrilled him, too. He knew that if he should escape, he would do his best to make good his promise to Old Beef McCay!

The McCay store was surrounded on all sides, and its four walls were scarred and pitted with bullet holes. And night was coming on rapidly. Kid Wolf saw the peril of their position. He knew, only too well, that the darkness would add to their troubles.

Twilight was deepening into dusk. Soon it became dark, and the moon would not be up for an hour. Kid Wolf, Tip McCay, and their four companions were never more alert. But even their keen eyes could not watch everything.

Young McCay was very pale. His father's death had touched him deeply, and fury against his killers burned in his glance. The others, too, were grim, thinking not of their own peril, but of the murderous Hardy gang. Thirsty for vengeance, they kept their eyes glued to their peepholes, fingers on gun triggers.

Tip had found a friend in Kid Wolf. No words were wasted on sympathy now, or regrets, but Tip knew that the drawling Texan understood.

There was little shooting being done now, and the suspense was telling on the nerves of all of them. What was Hardy up to? Would he again attempt to batter down the door and force a way in, under cover of darkness this time? But they were not left long in doubt.

"I smell smoke!" cried Blake.

Immediately afterward a sharp, crackling sound came to their ears. Hardy's gang had set fire to the store! Under cover of darkness, one of the slinking Indians had crept up and ignited a pile of oil-soaked rags against the logs of the building. The flames rose high, licking hungrily upward.

"Get water!" some one shouted.

A bucketful or two from their supply tossed accurately through a loophole by Kid Wolf extinguished the blaze before it could rise higher. It was a close call, and it showed them what to expect now. The Indian's mistake had been in setting his fire where it could be reached by the defenders.

"We were pretty blamed lucky," Caldwell began. "If thet fire——"

"Not so lucky," sang out the Texan. "Look at that!"

From the direction of the saloon, a half dozen streaks of flame shot up into the sky like so many rockets. Fire whistled in the wind. The streaks were burning arrows, fired by Hardy's red-skinned cutthroats!

"That settles it!" groaned Tip resignedly. "They're fallin' on the roof!"

It was a wonder Hardy's evil brain hadn't thought of it before. Possibly some of his savage recruits had suggested it. At any rate, it was more to the rustler chief's purpose than smashing in the door. It would soon be all over for the defenders now.

In a breath, the roof was afire. Little jets of smoke began to spurt down from the beams over their heads, and the flames were fanned into a roar by the wind. Desperately the little handful of fighters exchanged glances. Things looked black indeed. They could not remain long in the burning death trap, and outside was Hardy's gang, waiting in the darkness to shoot them down if they ventured to escape.

"Steady, boys!" encouraged the Texan. "Theah may be a chance fo' us yet."

But one of them—Blake—was overcome with terror. In spite of what the others did to restrain him, he ran outside, tearing his way through the barricade. His hands were raised wildly over his head in token of surrender. But that made no difference to Hardy. There was a dull spat, and Blake went sprawling, shot through the heart.

"I hope nobody else tries that," drawled The Kid. "When we go, let's go togethah. By the light of this fiah they can see the colah of ouah eyes. We haven't a chance in the world to escape that way."

"We can't stay here and burn to death!" groaned Terry White.

The heat and smoke were driving them out of the main room. Already flames were creeping down the walls, and the air was as hot as the breath of an oven. Their faces were blistered, their exposed hands cooked. Tip's coat was afire, as all five of them made a dash for the smaller room, taking the extra guns and ammunition with them.

This gave them a short respite. As yet the fire had not reached this apartment, although it would not take long. The smoke was soon so thick as nearly to be blinding. Stationing themselves at the loopholes, they began to work havoc with their rifles and revolvers. For the outlaws, bolder now, had ventured closer and made good targets in the glare of the burning building.

Suddenly there was a tremendous crash. The roof over the main room had come smashing in! Instantly the fire roared louder; tongues of it began to lick through the walls. Wood popped, and the heat became maddening. One side of the room became a mass of flames. The imprisoned men began to wet their clothing with the little water that was left.

"The stable!" ordered Kid Wolf. "Quick!"

The stable was built against the side of the store in the rear, and a door of the smaller room opened into it. There they must make their last stand.

The horses—and among them was Kid Wolf's white charger, Blizzard—were trembling with fear. They seemed to know, as well as their masters, that they were in terrible danger.

"We'll make ouah get-away with 'em, when the time comes," drawled the
Texan.

"Not a chance in the world, Kid!" Tip groaned.

"Just leave it to me," was the quiet reply. "We've got a slim chance, if mah idea works."

Fanned by the wind, the flames soon were eating at the stable. And once caught, it burned like tinder. The horses screamed as the fire licked at them, and all was confusion. To make matters worse, bullets ripped through continually.

The Hardy band had gathered about the burning buildings in a close ring, ready to shoot down any one the instant he showed himself. The situation looked hopeless.

"Stay in there if yuh want to!" a voice shouted outside. "Burn up, or take lead! It's all the same to us!"

The heat-tortured Scotty staggered to his feet and groped toward one of the plunging, screaming horses.

"Lead is the easiest way," he choked. "They'll get me, but I'm goin' to try and ride this hoss out o' here!"

"Wait a minute!" Kid Wolf cried. "All get yo' hosses ready and make the break when I say the word. But not until!"

Gritting their teeth, they prepared to endure the baking heat for a few minutes more. They did not know what Kid Wolf was going to do, but they had faith that he would do something. And they knew, as things stood, that they could not hope for anything but death if they tried to escape now.

The stable was a mass of flames. The walls were crumbling and falling in. The Texan gave his final orders.

"If any of us get through," he gasped, "we'll meet on the Chisholm
Trail—below heah. Ride hard, with heads low—when I say the word!"

Then Kid Wolf played his trump card. Upon leaving the store itself, he had taken a small keg with him—a powder keg. Until now, none of the others had noticed it. Holding it in his two hands, he darted through the door into the open! Bits of burning wood were all about him; flames licked at his boots as he stood upright, the keg over his head.

"Scattah!" he shouted at the astonished Hardy gang. "I'm blowin' us all to kingdom come!"

The Texan made a glorious picture as he stood there, framed in red and yellow. Fire was under his feet and on every side. The glow of it illuminated his face, which was stained with powder smoke and blackened by the flames. His eyes shone joyously, and a laugh of defiance and recklessness was on his lips as he swung the poised keg aloft.

The Hardy gang, frozen with terror for an instant, scattered. They ran like frightened jack rabbits. To shoot Kid Wolf would have been easy, but none of them dared to attempt it. For if the keg was dropped, one spark would set it off. Overcome with panic, the ring of outlaws melted into the night.

The Texan gave the signal, and Tip, Caldwell, Scotty, and White tore out of the doorway on their frightened horses, heads low, scattering as they came. Kid Wolf whistled sharply for Blizzard and pulled himself effortlessly into the saddle as the big white horse went by at a mad gallop. He tossed away the keg as he did so.

The Hardy faction began shooting then, but it was too late. Bullets hummed over the heads of the escaping riders, but not one found its mark.

Kid Wolf found himself riding alongside Tip McCay. The others had taken different routes. The sounds of guns behind them were rapidly growing fainter, and they were hidden by the pitch darkness. Kid Wolf heard Tip laughing to himself—a rather high-pitched, nervous laugh.

"Are yo' all right, Tip?" sang out the Texan.

"Great! Yore plan worked to a T! But do yuh know what was in that powder keg yuh used?"

"Yes, I knew all the time," chuckled The Kid. "It wasn't powdah at all. It was lime. I found that out when I tried to load a Sharps rifle from it. But just the same, Tip, the bluff worked!"

CHAPTER IX

THE NIGHT HERD

By the time the Hardy faction had given up the chase in disgust, Caldwell, White, and Scotty had joined Tip and the Texan some miles below Midway on the Chisholm Trail. The former three were jubilant over their unexpected release from the fire trap, but they agreed with the Texan's first proposal.

"We've got mo' work to do, boys," he drawled. "If we wanted to, we could give that gang the slip fo' good and make ouah get-away. I think, though, that yo' feel as I do. What do yo' say we rustle back that herd o' longhorns that Hardy stole from Tip's dad?"

It meant running into danger again, and lots of it, but none of them hesitated. Kid Wolf had made his promise, and the others vowed to see him through. It took them but a few moments to plan their reckless venture and get into action.

The Kid hated Hardy now, just as heartily as did Tip McCay. And even if he had not given his word to the dying cattleman, he would not have left a stone unturned to bring the rustling saloon keeper to justice. More than once before, Kid Wolf had used the law of the Colt when other measures failed to punish. And now, even although handicapped and outnumbered, he planned to strike. The stolen herd represented a small fortune, and rightfully belonged to Tip McCay and his mother. But where were the longhorns now?

Tip's suggestion was helpful. He thought the cattle could not be more than a few miles below. They quickly decided to ride south, and Tip and The Kid led the way. The moon was up now, and it lighted the open prairie with a soft glow. The five riders pounded down the old Chisholm cattle road at a furious clip, eyes open for signs. Presently Tip cried:

"We'll find 'em down there at Green Springs! I see a light! It's a camp fire!"

On the horizon they made out the feathery tops of trees against the sky, and riding closer, they could see a dark mass bunched up around them—little dots straying out at the edges. It was the stolen McCay herd!

No general on the field of battle planned more carefully than the Texan. The party came closer, warily and making no noise. As they did so, they could hear the bawling of the cattle. Some were milling and restless, and the cattleman could see four men on horses at different points, attempting to keep the animals quiet and soothed. At the camp fire, several hundred yards from the springs, were four other men. Two of these seemed to be asleep in their blankets; the other pair were talking and smoking.

"The odds," drawled Kid Wolf in a low tone, "are eight to five in theah favah. Tip, yo' take the man on the no'th. Scotty, yores is the hombre on the west, ridin' the pinto. Caldwell, take the south man, and yo', White, do yo' best with the gent ovah east."

"How about those four by the fire?" whispered White.

"I'm takin' them myself." The Texan smiled. "We must all work togethah. They won't know who we are at first, probably, and will think we're moah of Hardy's men. Don't shoot unless yo' have to."

One of the two bearded ruffians by the camp fire clutched his companion's sleeve. Two other men lay snoring on the other side of the crackling embers, and one of them stirred slightly.

"Bill," he muttered, "didn't yuh hear somethin'?"

"I hear a lot o' cows bawlin'." The other grinned. "But what I was tryin' to say is this: If Jack Hardy splits reasonable with us, why we——"

He was interrupted. Both men glanced up, to see a tall figure sauntering toward them into the ring of red firelight. Both stared, then reached for their guns.

"Sorry, gents," they were told in a soft and musical drawl, "but yo're a little late. Will yo' kindly poke yo' hands into the atmospheah?"

The two outlaws experienced a sudden wilting of their gun arms. It was quick death to attempt to draw while the round black eyes of this stranger's twin Colts were on them.

With a jerk, both threw up their hands. One gave a shout—a cry meant to warn his companions.

A shot from the direction of the herd told them, however, that the other outlaws were already aware of something unusual.

The two bandits in the blankets jumped up, rubbing their eyes in amazement. A kick from Kid Wolf's boot sent the .45 of one of them flying. The other, prodded none too gently with a revolver barrel, decided to surrender without further ado.

Lining them up, The Kid disarmed them. He was joined in a few minutes by Tip, White, Caldwell, and Scotty, who were driving two prisoners before them.

"Bueno!" said The Kid. "I see yo' got the job done without much trouble. But wheah's the othah two?"

Scotty smiled grimly, spat in the direction of the fire and said simply:

"They showed fight."

In five minutes, the six outlaws were tied securely with lariat rope, in spite of their fervent and profane protests.

"Jack Hardy will get yuh fer this, blast yuh!" snarled one.

"Maybe," drawled The Kid sweetly, "he won't want us aftah he gets us."

They planned to have the cattle moving northward by dawn. Once past Midway, the trail to Dodge was clear. But there was plenty of work to do in the meantime.

An hour after sunup, the herd of fifteen hundred steers was moving northward toward Midway. Kid Wolf and his four riders had them well under control, and had it not been for a certain alertness in their bearing, one would have thought it an ordinary cattle drive.

Kid Wolf was singing to the longhorns in a half-mocking, drawling tenor, as he rode slowly along:

"Oh, the desaht winds are blowin', on the Rio!
And we'd like to be a-goin', back to Rio!
But befo' we do,
We've got to see this through,
Like all good hombres do, from the Rio!"

The prisoners had been lashed securely to their horses and brought along. Already several miles had been traveled. And thus far the party had seen no signs of Jack Hardy's rustler gang. They were not, however, deceived. With every passing minute they were approaching closer to Midway, the Hardy stronghold. And not only that, but the outlaws were probably combing the country for them.

Reaching a place known as Stone Corral, they were especially vigilant. The place was a natural trap. It had been built of roughly piled stone and never entirely finished. Indians sometimes camped within the inclosure. It was, however, empty of life, and the adventurers were about to push on with the herd when the keen, roving eyes of Kid Wolf spotted something suspicious on the north horizon. He held his hand aloft, signaling a stop.

"Heah they come, boys!" he cried. "We'll have to stand 'em off heah!"

They had been expecting it, and they were hardly surprised or unprepared. They were favored, too, in having such a place for defense. Save for the low walls of the abandoned corral, there was no cover worth mentioning for miles. Among the cool-eyed five who prepared to make their stand, there was not one who hadn't faced death before and often. But never had the odds been more against them. They had slipped through the toils before, but now they were tightening again.

Watching the riders as they grew larger against the sky, they could count two dozen of them. There was no use to hide. They could not conceal the cattle herd, and the Hardy gang would surely investigate. Already they were veering in their course, riding directly toward the stone corral.

"Aweel," muttered Scotty, lapsing into his Scotch dialect for the moment, "there isn't mooch doot about how this thing will end. But I'm a-theenkin' we'll make it a wee bit hot for 'em before they get us!"

"Right yuh are, Scotty," said Tip savagely. "I'm goin' to try and pick Hardy out o' that gang o' killers, and if I do, I don't care much then what happens."

The prisoners had been herded within the corral, and their feet were lashed together.

"Yuh'll soon be listenin' to bullets," Caldwell told them. "Yuh'd better pray that yore pals shoot straight and don't hit you by mistake."

The Hardy gang had seen them! They saw the riders check their horses and then spread out in a cautious circle.

"Hardy ain't with 'em," sang out White, who had sharp eyes.

"They seem to be all there but him!" snapped Tip in disappointment.
"The coward's stayed behind!"

A bullet suddenly buzzed viciously over the corral and kicked up a shower of clods behind it. And as if this first shot were signal, a shattering volley rang out from the oncoming riders. Bits of stone and bursts of sand flew up from the low stone breastworks.

"We got yuh this time!" one of the rustlers shouted. "We're givin' yuh one chance to come out o' there!"

"And we're givin' yuh all the chances yo' want," replied Kid Wolf, "to come and get us!"

For answer, the horsemen—two dozen strong—charged! In a breath, they had struck and had been driven back. So quickly had it happened that nobody remembered afterward just how it had been done. The Texan's two Colts grew hot and cooled again. Three riderless horses galloped about the corral in circles, and the thing was over!

It had been sheer nerve and courage against odds, however. Three of the attackers fell from their horses before the stone walls had been gained, and three others had met with swift trouble inside. The rest had retreated hastily, leaving six dead and wounded behind. Only Caldwell had been hit, and his wound was a slight one in the shoulder. The defenders cheered lustily.

"Come on!" Tip shouted. "We're waitin'!"

Kid Wolf, however, was not deceived. The attacking party was made up largely of half-breeds and Indians. The Texan knew their ways. That first charge had been only half-hearted. The next time, the outlaws would fight to a finish, angered as they were to a fever heat. And although the defenders might account for a few more of the renegades, the end was inevitable. Kid Wolf did not lose his cool smile. He had been in tight situations before, and had long ago resigned himself to dying, when his time came, in action.

"Here they come again!" barked Scotty grimly. But suddenly a burst of rifle fire rang out in the distance—a sharp, crackling volley. Two of the outlaw gang dropped. One horse screamed and fell heavily with its rider.

The five defenders saw to their utter amazement that a large band of horsemen was riding in from the east at a hot gallop, guns spitting fire. As a rescue, it was timed perfectly. The rustlers had been about to charge the corral, and now they reined up in panic, undecided what to do. Two others fell. And in the meantime, the newcomers, whoever they were, were circling so as to surround them on all sides.

"It's the law!" Kid Wolf smiled.

"The what?" Caldwell demanded. "Why, there ain't no law between here an'——"

But the Texan knew he was right. He had seen the sun glittering on the silver badge that one of the strange riders wore.

The rustlers themselves were outnumbered now. The posse included a score of men, and they handled their guns in a determined way. The outlaws fired a wild shot or two, then signified their surrender by throwing up their hands. While the sullen renegades were being searched and disarmed, the leader of the posse came over to where the Texan and the others were watching.

"Who in blazes are you?" he shot out.

"That's the question I was goin' to ask yo', sheriff," returned The Kid politely.

"Humph! How d'ye know I'm a sheriff?" grunted the leader.

"Yo're wearin' yore stah in plain sight."

"Oh!" The officer grinned. "Well, I'm Sheriff Dawson, o' Limpin Buffalo County. I've brought my posse over two hundred miles to get my hands on one o' the worst gangs o' rustlers in the Injun Nations. I don't know who you are, but the fact that yuh were fightin' 'em is enough fer me. I know yo're all right."

"Thanks, sheriff," said the Texan. "I'm leavin' Mr. Tip McCay heah to tell yo' ouah story, if yo'll excuse me fo' a while."

"Where yuh goin', Kid?" demanded young McCay, astonished.

"To Midway," drawled the Texan, swinging himself into Blizzard's saddle. "Looks like a clean sweep has been made of the Hahdy gang—except Hahdy himself. I reckon I'll ride in and get him, so's to make the pahty complete."

"Hardy!" the officer ejaculated. "I want that malo hombre—and mighty bad, dead or alive!"

"Let us go along!" burst out Tip.

"No," laughed the Texan quietly. "Yo' boys have had enough dangah and excitement fo' one day, not includin' yestahday. I'd rathah settle this little business with Jack Hahdy alone. Yo' drive the cattle on and meet me latah."

And lifting his hand in farewell, The Kid touched his white charger with the spur. In a few minutes he was a tiny spot on the horizon, bound for the lair of Jack Hardy, the rustler king.

There was one thing, however, that Kid Wolf was not aware of, and that was a pair of beady black eyes watching him from behind a prairie-dog hill! One of the renegade half-breeds had managed to slip away from the posse unseen. It was Tucumcari Pete, and in a draw a few yards away was his pony.

CHAPTER X

TUCUMCARI'S HAND

Jack Hardy was annoyed. He had planned carefully, expecting to have no difficulty in wiping out the hated McCays and those who sympathized with them.

His plans had only partially succeeded. The elder McCay was dead, but Tip and some of the others had slipped through his clutches. To have the McCay faction wiped out of Midway forever meant money and power to him. And now his job was only half finished.

"They'll get 'em," he muttered to himself.

He was alone in his place, the Idle Hour. He had sent every available man, even his bartender, out on the chase. He wanted to finish, at all costs, what he had begun.

"It was all due to that blasted hombre from Texas!" he groaned. "I wish I had him here, curse him! It would've all gone smooth enough if he hadn't meddled. Well, he'll pay! The boys will get him. And when they do——" Hardy thumped the bar with his fist in fury.

He paced the floor angrily. The deserted building seemed to be getting on his nerves, for he went behind the bar several times and, with shaking fingers, poured stiff drinks of red whisky. Then he walked to one of the deserted card tables and began to riffle the cards aimlessly.

There were two reasons why the rustling saloon keeper had not joined in the search for his victims. One was that he hated to leave unprotected the big safe in his office, which always contained a snug sum of money. The other was that Jack Hardy was none too brave when it came to gun fighting. He was still seated at the card table, laying out a game of solitaire, when the swinging doors of the saloon opened quietly. The first inkling Hardy had of a stranger's presence, however, was the soft drawl of a familiar voice:

"Good mohnin', Mistah Hahdy! Enjoyin' a little game o' cahds?"

Hardy's body remained stiff and rigid for a breathless moment, frozen with surprise. Then he turned his head, and his right hand moved snakelike downward. Just a few inches it moved, then it stopped. Hardy had thought he had a chance, and then he suddenly decided that he hadn't. At his first glance, he had seen Kid Wolf's hands carelessly at his sides; at his second, he saw them holding two .45s!

Kid Wolf's smile was mocking as he sauntered into the room. His thumbs were caressing the gun hammers.

"No, it wouldn't be best," he drawled, "to monkey with that gun o' yo'n. They say, yo' know, that guns are dangerous because they go off. But the really dangerous guns are those that don't go off quick enough."

The rustler leader rose to his feet on shaking legs. His face had paled to the color of paper, and beads of perspiration stood out on his pasty forehead.

"Yuh—yuh got the drop, Mr. Wolf," he pleaded. "Don't kill me!"

"Nevah mind," the Texan said softly. "When yo' die, it'll be on a rope. It's been waitin' fo' yo' a long time. But now I have some business with yo'. First thing, yo'd bettah let me keep that gun o' yo'n."

The Kid pulled Hardy's .44 from its holster beneath the saloon man's black coat.

"Next thing," he drawled, "I want yo' to take that body down from in front o' yo' do'."

Kid Wolf referred to the corpse of the unfortunate McCay spy whom Hardy had hanged. It still hung outside the Idle Hour, blocking the door.

The Texan made him get a box, stand on it and loosen the rope from the dead man's neck. Released from the noose, the body sagged to the ground.

"Just leave the noose theah," ordered The Kid. "It may be that the sheriff will have some use fo' it."

"The sheriff!" Hardy repeated blankly.

"Yes, he'll be heah soon," murmured Kid Wolf softly. "I have some business with yo' first. Maybe we'd bettah go to yo' office."

Jack Hardy's office was a little back room, divided off from the main one of the Idle Hour. In spite of his protests, Hardy was compelled to unlock this apartment and enter with his captor.

"Tip has recovahed his fathah's cattle," The Kid told him pointedly, "but theah's the little mattah of the burned sto' to pay fo'. In behalf of Tip and his mothah, I'm demandin'—well, I think ten thousand dollahs in cash will just about covah it."

"I haven't got ten thousand!" Hardy began to whine.

But The Kid cut him off. "Open that safe," he snapped, "and we'll see!"

Hardy took one look at his captor and decided to obey and to lose no time in doing so. The Texan's eyes were crackling gray-blue.

A large sheaf of bills was in an inner drawer, along with a canvas bag of gold coins. Ordering Hardy to take a chair opposite, Kid Wolf began to count the money carefully. To allow himself the free use of his hands, he holstered both his guns.

"When this little mattah is settled," the Texan drawled, "I have a little personal business with yo', man to man."

Jack Hardy moistened his lips feverishly. Although he was not now covered by The Kid's guns, he lacked the courage to begin a fight. He knew how quick Kid Wolf could be, and he was a coward.

The Texan was stacking the gold into neat piles.

"Fo'teen thousand two hundred dollahs," he announced finally. "The odd fo' thousand, two hundred will go to the families of the men yo' murdahed yestahday. And now, Mistah Jack Hahdy, my personal business with yo' will be——"

He did not finish. The door of the little office had suddenly opened, and Tucumcari Pete stood in the entrance! His evil face was gloating, his snaky eyes glittering with the prospect of quick revenge. In his dirty hands was a rifle, and he was raising it to cover The Kid's heart!

Kid Wolf's hands were on the table. There was no time for him to draw his Colts! It seemed that the half-breed had taken a hand in the game and that he held the winning cards! In a second it would be over. The half-breed's finger was reaching for the trigger; his mouth was twisted into a gloating, vicious smile.

But while The Kid was seated in such a position at the table that he could not hope to reach his guns quickly enough, he had his hole card—the bowie knife in a sheath concealed inside his shirt collar. The Kid could draw and hurl, if necessary, that gleaming blade as rapidly as he could pull his 45s. His hand darted up and back. Something glittered in the air for just a breath, and there was a singing twang!

Tucumcari Pete gasped. His weird cry ended in a gurgle. He lowered his rifle and teetered on his feet. The flying knife had found its mark—the half-breed's throat! The keen-pointed blade had buried itself nearly to the guard! Clawing at the steel, Tucumcari staggered, then dropped to the floor with his clattering rifle. His body jerked for a moment, then stiffened. Justice had dealt with a murderer.

"The thirteenth ace," The Kid drawled softly, "is always in the deck!"

But Hardy had taken advantage of Tucumcari's interruption. Jumping up with an oath, he hurled the table over upon The Kid and leaped for the door. The Texan scrambled from under the heavy table and darted after him. Hardy was running for his life. He raced into the main room of the Idle Hour with The Kid at his heels.

Kid Wolf could have drawn his guns and shot him down. But it was too easy. Unless forced to do so, that was not the Texan's way.

Snatching open a drawer in one of the gambling tables, Hardy seized a large-bore derringer and whirled it up to shoot. But The Kid's steel fingers closed on his wrist. The ugly little pistol exploded into the ceiling—once, and then the other barrel.

"There'll be no guns used!" said The Kid, with a deadly smile. "I told yo' we'd have this out man to man!"

Hardy's lips writhed back in a snarl of hatred. He sent a smashing right-hand jab at the Texan's heart. Kid Wolf blocked it, stepped to one side and lashed the rustler king under the eye. Hardy staggered back against the table, clutching it for support. The Kid pressed closer, and Hardy dodged around the table, placing it between him and his enemy. The Texan hurled it to one side and smashed his way through the saloon owner's guard.

Hardy, head down to escape The Kid's terrific blows, bucked ahead with all his power and weight advantage and seized him about the waist. It was apparent that he was trying to get his hands on one of the Texan's guns. At close range, Kid Wolf smashed at him with both hands, his fists smacking in sharp hooks that landed on both sides of Hardy's jaw. To save himself, Hardy staggered back, only to receive a mighty blow in the face.

"I'll kill yuh for that, blast yuh!" he cried with a snarl.

Hardy was strong and heavy, but the punishment he was receiving was telling on him. His breath was coming in jerky gasps. Seizing the high lookout stool from the faro layout, he advanced toward The Kid, his eyes glittering with fury.

"I'll pound yore head to pieces!" he rasped.

"Pound away," Kid Wolf said.

Hardy whirled it over his head. Kid Wolf, however, instead of jumping backward to avoid it, darted in like a wild cat. While the stool was still at the apex of its swing, he struck, with the strength of his shoulder behind the blow. It landed full on the rustler's jaw, and Hardy went crashing backward, heels over head, landing on the wreckage of the stool. For a moment he lay there, stunned.

"Get up!" snapped The Kid crisply. "Theah's still mo' comin' to yo'."

Staggering to his feet, Hardy made a run for the front door. Kid Wolf, however, met him. Putting all the power of his lean young muscles behind his sledgelike fists, he hit Hardy twice. The first blow stopped Hardy, straightened him up with a jolt and placed him in position for the second one—a right-hand uppercut. Smash! It landed squarely on the point of Hardy's weak chin. The blow was enough to fell an ox, and the rustler chief went hurtling through the door, carried off his feet completely.

What happened then was one of those ironies of fate. The rope on which Hardy had hanged the McCay spy, George Durham, still hung before the door, its noose swaying in the wind some five feet from the ground. Hardy hit it. His head struck the rope with terrific force—caught in the loop for an instant. There was a sharp snap, and Hardy dropped to the wooden sidewalk. For a few moments, his body twitched spasmodically, then lay still and rigid. His neck had been broken by the shock!

For a minute Kid Wolf stared in unbelief. Then he smiled grimly.

"Guess I was right," he murmured, "when I said it was on the books fo'
Hahdy to die by the rope!"

Cattle were approaching Midway on the Chisholm Trail—hundreds of them, bawling, milling, and pounding dust clouds into the air with their sharp hoofs.

The Texan, watching the dark-red mass of them, smiled. McCay cattle, those! And there was a woman in Dodge City who was cared for now—Tip's mother.

"I guess we've got the job done, Blizzard." He smiled at the big white horse that was standing at the hitch rack. "Heah comes the boys!"

It was a wondering group that gathered, a few minutes later, in the ill-fated Idle Hour. They listened in amazement to Kid Wolf's recital of what had taken place since he left them.

"And so Hardy hanged himself!" the sheriff from Limping Buffalo ejaculated, when he could find his voice. "Well, I must say that saves me the trouble o' doin' it! But there's some reward comin' to yuh, Mr. Wolf."

The Texan smiled. "Divide it between Scotty, Caldwell, and White," he drawled. "And, Tip, heah's the ten thousand Mistah Hahdy donated. Present it to yo' good mothah, son, with mah compliments."

Tip could not speak for a minute, and when he did try to talk, his voice was choked with emotion.

"I can't begin to thank yuh," he said.

Kid Wolf shook his head. "Please don't thank me, Tip. Yo' see, I always try to make the troubles of the undah dawg, mah troubles. So long as theah are unfohtunates and downtrodden folks in this world, I'll have mah work cut out. I am, yo' might say, a soldier of misfohtune."

"But yo're not goin'?" Tip cried, seeing the Texan swing himself into his saddle.

"I'm just a rollin' stone—usually a-rollin' toward trouble," said the
Texan. "Some time, perhaps, we'll meet again. Adios!"

Kid Wolf swung his hat aloft, and he and his white horse soon blurred into a moving dot on the far sweeps of the Chisholm Trail.

CHAPTER XI

A BUCKSHOT GREETING

"Oh, the cows stampede on the Rio Grande!
The Rio!
The sands do blow, and the winds do wail,
But I want to be wheah the cactus stands!
And the rattlah shakes his ornery tail!"

Kid Wolf sang his favorite verse to his favorite tune, and was happy.
For he was on his beloved Rio.

He had left the Chisholm Trail behind him, and now "The Rollin' Stone" was rolling homeward, and—toward trouble.

The Kid, mildly curious, had been watching a certain dust cloud for half an hour. At first he had thought it only a whirling dervish—one of those restless columns of sand that continually shift over the arid lands. But it was following the course of the trail below him on the desert—rounding each bend and twist of it.

The Texan, astride his big white horse, had been "hitting the high places only," riding directly south at an easy clip, but scorning the trail whenever a short cut presented itself.

Descending from the higher ground of the mesa now, by means of an arroyo leading steeply down upon the plain, he saw what was kicking up the dust. It was a buckboard, drawn by a two-horse team, and traveling directly toward him at a hot clip. There was one person, as far as he could see, in the wagon. And across this person's knees was a shotgun. The Kid saw that unless he changed his course he would meet the buckboard and its passenger face to face.

Kid Wolf had no intention of avoiding the meeting, but something in the tenseness of the figure on the seat of the vehicle, even at that distance, caused his gray-blue eyes to pucker.

The distance between him and the buckboard rapidly decreased as Kid Wolf's white horse drummed down between the chocolate-colored walls of the arroyo. Between him and the team on the trail now was only a stretch of level white sand, dotted here and there with low burrow weeds. Suddenly, the driver of the buckboard whirled the shotgun. The double barrels swung up on a line with Kid Wolf.

Quick as the movement was, the Texan had learned to expect the unexpected. In the West, things happened, and one sought the reason for them afterward. His hands went lightning-fast toward the twin .45s that hung at his hips.

But Kid Wolf did not draw. A look of amazement had crossed his sun-burned face and he removed his hands from his gun butts. Instead of firing on the figure in the buckboard, Kid Wolf wheeled his horse about quickly, and turned sidewise in his saddle in order to make as small a target as possible.

The shotgun roared. Spurts of sand were flecked up all around The Kid and the big white horse winced and jumped as a ball smashed the saddletree a glancing blow. Another slug went through the Texan's hat brim. Fortunately, he was not yet within effective range.

Even now, Kid Wolf did not draw his weapons. And he did not beat a retreat. Instead, he rode directly toward the buckboard. The click of a gun hammer did not stop him. One barrel of the shotgun remained unfired and its muzzle had him covered.

But the Texan approached recklessly. He had doffed his big hat and now he made a courteous, sweeping bow. He pulled his horse to a halt not ten yards from the menacing shotgun.

"Pahdon me, ma'am," he drawled, "but is theah anything I can do fo' yo', aside from bein' a tahget in yo' gun practice?"

The figure in the buckboard was that of a woman! There was a moment's breathless pause.

"There's nine buckshot in the other barrel," said a feminine voice—a voice that for all its courage faltered a little.

"Please don't waste them on me," Kid Wolf returned, in his soft, Southern speech. "I'm afraid yo' have made a mistake. I can see that yo' are in trouble. May I help yo'?"

Doubtfully, the woman lowered her weapon. She was middle-aged, kindly faced, and her eyes were swollen from weeping. She looked out of place with the shotgun—friendless and very much alone.

"I don't know whether to trust you or not," she said wearily. "I suppose I ought to shoot you, but I can't, somehow."

"Well I'm glad yo' can't," drawled The Kid with contagious good humor.
His face sobered. "Who do yo' think I am, ma'am?"

"I don't know," the woman sighed, "but you're an enemy. Every one in this cruel land is my enemy. You're an outlaw—and probably one of the murderers who killed my husband."

"Please believe that I'm not," the Texan told her earnestly. "I'm a strangah to this district. Won't yo' tell me yo' story? I want to help yo'."

"There isn't much to tell," the driver of the buckboard said in a quavering voice. "I'm on the way to town to sell the ranch—the S Bar. I have my husband's body with me on the wagon. He was murdered yesterday."

Not until then did Kid Wolf see the grim cargo of the buckboard. His face sobered and his eyes narrowed.

"Do yo' want to sell, ma'am?"

"No, but it's all I can do now," she said tearfully. "Major Stover, in San Felipe, offered me ten thousand for it, some time ago. It's worth more, but I guess this—this is the end. I don't know why I'm tellin' you all this, young man."

"This Majah Stovah—is he an army officer?" The Kid asked wonderingly.

The woman shook her head. "No. He isn't really a major. He never was in the army, so far as any one knows. He just fancies the title and calls himself 'Major Stover'—though he has no right to do so."

"A kind of four-flushin' hombre—a coyote in sheep's clothin', I should judge," drawled Kid Wolf.

"Thet just about describes him," the woman agreed.

"But yo' sho'ly aren't alone on yo' ranch. Wheah's yo' men?" asked The
Kid.

"They quit last week."

"Quit?" The Kid's eyebrows went up a trifle.

"All of them—five in all, includin' the foreman. And soon afterward, all our cattle were chased off the ranch. Gone completely—six hundred head. Then yesterday"—she paused and her eyes filled with tears—"yesterday my husband was shot while he was standing at the edge of the corral. I don't know who did it."

No wonder this woman felt that every hand was turned against her. Kid
Wolf's eyes blazed.

"Won't the law help yo'?" he demanded.

"There isn't any law," said the woman bitterly. "Now you understand why I fired at you. I was desperate—nearly frantic with grief. I hardly knew what I was doing."

"Well, just go back home to yo' ranch, ma'am. I don't think yo' need to sell it."

"But I can't run the S Bar alone!"

"Yo' won't have to. I'll bring yo' ridahs back. Will I find them in
San Felipe?"

"I think so," said the woman, astonished. "But they won't come."

"Oh, yes, they will," said The Kid politely.

"But I can't ranch without cattle."

"I'll get them back fo' yo'."

"But they're over the line into Old Mexico by now!"

"Nevah yo' mind, ma'am. I'll soon have yo' place on a workin' basis again. Just give me the names of yo' ridahs and I'll do the rest."

"Well, there's Ed Mullhall, Dick Anton, Fred Wise, Frank Lathum, and the foreman—Steve Stacy. But, tell me, who are you—to do this for a stranger, a woman you've never seen before? I'm Mrs. Thomas."

The Texan bowed courteously.

"They call me Kid Wolf, ma'am," he replied. "Mah business is rightin' the wrongs of the weak and oppressed, when it's in mah power. Those who do the oppressin' usually learn to call me by mah last name. Now don't worry any mo', but just leave yo' troubles to me."

Mrs. Thomas smiled, too. She dried her eyes and looked at the Texan gratefully.

"I've known you ten minutes," she said, "and somehow it seems ten years. I do trust you. But please don't get yourself in trouble on account of Ma Thomas. You don't know those men. This is a hard country—terribly hard."

Kid Wolf, however, only smiled at her warning. He remained just long enough to obtain two additional bits of information—the location of the S Bar and the distance to the town of San Felipe. Then he turned his horse's head about, and with a cheerful wave of his hand, struck out for the latter place. The last he saw of Mrs. Thomas, she was turning her team.

Kid Wolf realized that he had quite a problem on his hands. The work ahead of him promised to be difficult, but, as usual, he had gone into it impulsively—and yet coolly.

"We've got a big ordah to fill, Blizzahd," he murmured, as his white horse swung into a long lope. "I hope we haven't promised too much."

He wondered if in his endeavor to cheer up the despondent woman he had aroused hopes that might not materialize. The plight of Mrs. Thomas had stirred him deeply. His pulses had raced with anger at her persecutors—whoever they were. His Southern chivalry, backed up by his own code—the code of the West—prompted him to promise what he had.

"A gentleman, Blizzahd," he mused, "couldn't do othahwise. We've got to see this thing through!"

Ma Thomas—he had seen at a glance—was a plains-woman. Courage and character were in her kindly face. The Texan's heart had gone out to her in her trouble and need.

Once again he found himself in his native territory, but in a country gone strange to him. Ranchers and ranches had come in overnight, it seemed to him. A year or two can make a big difference in the West. Two years ago, Indians—to-day, cattle! Twenty miles below rolled the muddy Rio. It was Texas—stern, vast, mighty.

And, if what Mrs. Thomas had said was correct, law hadn't kept pace with the country's growth. There was no law. Kid Wolf knew what that meant. His face was very grim as he left the wagon trail behind.

The town of San Felipe—two dozen brown adobes, through which a solitary street threaded its way—sprawled in the bottom of a canyon near the Rio Grand. The cow camp had grown, in a few brief months, with all the rapidity of an agave plant, which adds five inches to its size in twenty-four hours. San Felipe was noisy and wide awake.

It was December. The sun, however, was warm overhead. The sky was cloudless and the distant range of low mountains stood out sharp and clear against the sky. As Kid Wolf rode into the town, a hard wind was blowing across the sands and it was high noon.

San Felipe's single street presented an interesting appearance. Most of the long, flat adobes were saloons—The Kid did not need to read the signs above them to see that. The loungers and hangers-on about their doors told the story. Sandwiched between two of the biggest bars, however, was a small shack—the only frame building in the place.

"Well, this Majah Stover hombre must be in the business," muttered The
Kid to himself.

His eyes had fallen on the sign over the door:

MAJOR STOVER LAND OFFICE

Kid Wolf was curious. Strange to say, he had been thinking of the major before he had observed the sign, and wondering about the man's offer to buy the S Bar Ranch. The Texan whistled softly as he dismounted. He left Blizzard waiting at the hitch rack, and sauntered to the office door.

He opened the door, let himself in, and found himself in a dusty, paper-littered room. A few maps hung on the walls. Kid Wolf's first impression was the disagreeable smell of cigar stumps.

His eyes fell upon the man at the desk by the dirty window, and he experienced a sudden start—an uncomfortable feeling. The Texan did not often dislike a man at first sight, but he was a keen reader of character.

"Do yuh have business with me?" demanded the man at the desk.

Major Stover, if this were he, was a paunchy, disgustingly fat man. His face was moonlike, sensually thick of lip. His eyes, as they fell upon his visitor, were hoglike, nearly buried in sallow folds of skin.

The thick brows above them had grown close together.

"Well," The Kid drawled, "I don't exactly know. Yo' deal in lands, I believe?"

"I have some holdings," said the fat man complacently. "Are yo' interested in the San Felipe district?"

"Very much," said The Kid, nodding. "I am quite attracted by
Rattlesnake County, and——"

"This isn't Rattlesnake County, young man," corrected the land agent.
"This is San Felipe County."

"Oh, excuse me," murmured the Texan, "maybe I got that idea because of the lahge numbah of snakes——"

"There's no more snakes here than——" the other began.

"I meant the human kind," explained Kid Wolf mildly.

Major Stover's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do yuh want with me?" he demanded.

"Did yo' offah ten thousand dollahs fo' the S Bar Ranch?"

"That is none of yore business!"

"No?" drawled Kid Wolf patiently. "Yo' might say that I am heah as
Mrs. Thomas' agent."

The major looked startled. "Where's yore credentials?" he snapped, after a brief pause.

Kid Wolf merely smiled and tapped the butts of his six-guns. "Heah, sah," he murmured. "I'm askin' yo'."

Major Stover looked angry. "Yes," he said sharply, "I did at one time make such an offer. However, I have reconsidered. My price is now three thousand dollars."

"May I ask," spoke The Kid softly, "why yo' have reduced yo' offah?"

"Because," said the land dealer, "she has to sell now! I've got her where I want her, and if yo're her agent, yuh can tell her that!"

One stride, and Kid Wolf had fat Major Stover by the neck. For all his weight, and in spite of his bulk, The Kid handled him as if he had been a child. An upward jerk dragged him from his chair. The Texan held him by one muscular hand.

"So yo' have her where yo' want her, have yo'?" he cried, giving the major a powerful shake.

He passed his other hand over the land agent's flabby body, poking the folds of fat here and there over Major Stover's ribs. At each thump the major flinched.

"Why, yo're as soft as an ovahripe pumpkin," Kid Wolf drawled, deliberately insulting. "And yo' dare to tell me that! No, don't try that!"

Major Stover had attempted to draw an ugly-looking derringer. The Kid calmly took it away from him and threw it across the room. He shook the land agent until his teeth rattled like dice in a box.

"Mrs. Thomas' ranch, sah," he said crisply, "is not in the mahket!"

With that he hurled the major back into his chair. There was a crashing, rending sound as Stover's huge body struck it. The wood collapsed and the dazed land agent found himself sitting on the floor.

"I'll get yuh for this, blast yuh!" gasped the major, his bloated face red with rage. "Yo're goin' to get yores, d'ye hear! I've got power here, and yore life ain't worth a cent!"

"It's not in the mahket, eithah," the Texan drawled, as he strolled toward the door. At the threshold he paused.

"Yo've had yo' say, majah," he snapped, "and now I'll have mine. If I find that yo' are in any way responsible fo' the tragedies that have ovahtaken Mrs. Thomas, yo'd bettah see to yo' guns. Until then—adios!"

CHAPTER XII

THE S BAR SPREAD

The bartender of the La Plata Saloon put a bottle on the bar in front of the stranger, placing, with an added flourish, a thick-bottomed whisky glass beside it. This done, he examined the newcomer with an attentive eye, pretending to polish the bar while doing so.

The man he observed was enough to attract any one's notice, even in the cosmopolitan cow town of San Felipe. Kid Wolf was worth a second glance always. The bartender saw a lean-waisted, broad-shouldered young man whose face was tanned so dark as to belie his rather long light hair. He wore a beautiful shirt of fringed buckskin, and his boots were embellished with the Lone Star of Texas, done in silver. Two single-action Colts of the old pattern swung low from his beaded belt.

"Excuse me, sir," said the bartender, "but yore drink?"

"Oh, yes," murmured The Kid, and placed a double eagle on the bar.

"No, yuh've already paid fer it." The bartender nodded at the whisky glass, still level full of the amber liquor. "I was just wonderin' why yuh didn't down it."

"Oh, yes," said Kid Wolf again. He picked up the glass between thumb and forefinger and deliberately emptied it into a handy cuspidor. "I leave that stuff to mah enemies," he said, smiling. "By the way, can yo' tell me where I can find a Mistah Mullhall, a Mistah Anton, a Mistah Lathum, a Mistah Wise, and a Mistah Steve Stacy?"

When the bartender could recover himself, he pointed out a table near the door.

"Wise an' Lathum an' Anton is right there—playin' monte," he said.
"Stacy an' Mullhall was here this mornin', but I don't see 'em now."

Thanking him, Kid Wolf sauntered away from the bar and approached the gambling table.

The La Plata Saloon was fairly well patronized, even though it lacked several hours until nightfall. Kid Wolf had taken the measure of the loiterers at a glance. Most of them were desperadoes. "Outlaw" was written over their hard faces, and he wondered if Ma Thomas hadn't been right about the county's general lawlessness. San Felipe seemed to be well supplied with gunmen.

The three men at the table, although they were "heeled" with .45s, were of a different type. They were cowmen first, gunmen afterward. Two were in their twenties; the other was older.

"I beg yo' pahdon, caballeros," said The Kid softly, as he came up behind them, "but I wish to talk with yo' in private. Wheah can we go?"

There was something in the Texan's voice and bearing that prevented questions just then. The trio faced about in surprise. Plainly, they did not know whether to take Kid Wolf for a friend or for a foe. Like true Westerners, they were not averse to finding out.

"We can use the back room," said one. "Come on, you fellas."

One of them delayed to make a final bet in the came, then he followed. At a signal to the bartender, the back room, vacant, save for a dozen bottles, likewise empty, was thrown open to them.

"Have chairs, gentlemen," The Kid invited, as he carefully closed the door.

The trio took chairs about the table, looking questioningly at the stranger. The oldest of them picked up a deck of cards and began to shuffle them absently. Kid Wolf quietly took his place among the trio.

"Boys," he asked slowly, "do yuh want jobs?"

There was a pause, during which the three punchers exchanged glances.

"Lay yore cards face up, stranger," invited one of them. "We'll listen, anyway, but——"

"I want yo' to go to work fo' the S Bar," said The Kid crisply.

"That settles that," growled the oldest puncher, after sending a searching glance at the Texan's face. The others looked amazed. "No. We've quit the S Bar."

"Who suggested that yo' quit?" The Kid shot at them.

The man at the Texan's right flushed angrily. "I don't see that this is any of yore business, stranger," he barked.

"Men," said The Kid, and his voice was as chill as steel, "I'm makin' this my business! Yo're comin' back to work fo' the S Bar!"

"And yo're backin' thet statement up—how?" demanded the oldest cow hand, suddenly ceasing to toy with the card deck.

"With these," returned Kid Wolf mildly.

The trio stared. The Kid had drawn his twin .45s and laid them on the table so quickly and so quietly that none of them had seen his arms move.

"Now, I hope," murmured The Kid, "that yo' rather listen to me talk than to those. I've only a few words to say. Boys, I was surprised. I didn't think yo' would be the kind to leave a po' woman like Mrs. Thomas in the lurch. Men who would do that, would do anything—would even run cattle into Mexico," he added significantly.

All three men flushed to the roots of their hair.

"Don't think we had anything to do with thet!" exclaimed one.

"We got a right to quit if we want to," put in the oldest with a defiant look.

"Boys, play square with me and yo' won't be sorry," Kid Wolf told them earnestly. "I know that all these things happened after yo' left. Since then, cattle have been rustled and Mr. Thomas has been murdahed—yo' know that as well as I do. That woman might be yo' mothah. She needs yo'. What's yo' verdict?"

There was a long silence. The three riders looked like small boys whose hands had been caught in the cooky jar.

"How much did Majah Stovah pay yo' to quit?" added the Texan suddenly.

The former S Bar men jumped nervously. The man at The Kid's left gulped.

"Well," he blurted, "we was only gettin' forty-five, and when Stover offered to double it, and with nothin' to do but lie around, why, we——"

"Things are changed now," said The Kid gently. "Ma Thomas is alone now."

"That's right," said the oldest awkwardly. "I suppose we ought to——"

"Ought to!" repeated one of the others, jumping to his feet. "By
George, we will! I ain't the kind to go back on a woman like Mrs.
Thomas. I don't care what yuh others do!"

"That's what I say," chorused his two companions in the same breath.

"I'll show yo' I aim to play fair," Kid Wolf approved. He took a handful of gold pieces from his pocket and placed them on the table in a little pile. "This is all I have, but Mrs. Thomas isn't in a position to pay right now, so heah is yo' first month's wages in advance."

The three looked at him and gulped. If ever three men were ashamed, they appeared to be. The old cow-puncher pushed the pile back to The Kid.

"We ain't takin' it," he mumbled. "Don't get us wrong, partner. We ain't thet kind. We never would've quit the S Bar if it hadn't been for Steve Stacy—the foreman. And, of course, things was goin' all right at the ranch then. Guess it's all our fault, and we're willin' to right it. We don't know yuh, but yo're O.K., son."

They shook hands warmly. The Kid learned that the oldest of the three was Anton. Wise was the bow-legged one, and Lathum was freckled and tall.

"Stacy hadn't better know about this," Lathum decided.

"I was hopin' to get him back," said The Kid.

"No chance. He's in with the major now," spoke up Wise. "So's Mullhall. Neither of 'em will listen—and they'll make trouble when they find we're goin' back."

"If yo'-all feel the same way as I do," Kid Wolf drawled as they filed out of the back room, "they won't have to make trouble. It'll be theah fo' 'em."

As they approached the bar, Anton clutched The Kid's elbow.

"There's Steve Stacy and Mullhall now," he warned in a low voice.

Stacy and Mullhall were big men, heavily built. Upon seeing the party emerge from the back room, they pushed away from the bar and came directly toward Kid Wolf, who was walking in the lead.

"Steve Stacy's the hombre in front," Wise whispered. "Be on yore guard."

The Kid knew the ex-foreman's type even before he spoke. He was the loud-mouthed and overbearing kind of waddy—a gunman first and a cowman afterward. His beefy face was flushed as red as his flannel shirt. His eyes were fixed boldly on the Texan.

"The barkeeper tells me yuh were inquirin' fer me," he said heavily.
"What's on yore mind?"

Mullhall was directly behind him, insolent of face and bearing. The two seemed to be paying no attention to the trio of men behind The Kid.

"I was just goin' to offah yo' a chance to come back to the S Bar," explained Kid Wolf. "These three caballeros have already signed the pay roll again."

It was putting up the issue squarely, with no hedging. Both Stacy and
Mullhall darkened with fury.

"What's yore little game? I guess it's about time to put an extra spoke in yore wheel!" snarled Mullhall, coming forward.

"Who in blazes are you?" sneered Stacy.

"Just call me The Wolf!" The Kid barked. "I'm managin' the S Bar right now, and if yo' men don't want to be friends, I'll be right glad to have yo' fo' enemies!"

Mullhall had pressed very close. It was as if the whole thing had been prearranged. His hands suddenly shot out and seized Kid Wolf's arms—pinning them tightly.

It was an old and deadly trick. While Mullhall pinioned the Texan,
Steve Stacy planned to draw and shoot him down. The pair had worked
together like the cogwheels of a machine, and all was perfectly timed.
Stacy drew like a flash, cocking his .45 as it left the holster.

The play, however, was not worked fast enough. Kid Wolf was not to be victimized by such a threadbare ruse. He was too fast, too strong. He whirled Mullhall about, his left boot went behind Mullhall's legs. With all his force he threw his weight against him, tearing his arms free.

Mullhall went backward like a catapult, directly at Stacy. The gun exploded in the air, and as the slug buzzed into the roof, both Mullhall and the exforeman went down like bags of meal—a tangled maze of legs and arms.

"Get up," The Kid drawled. "And get out!"

Kid Wolf had not bothered to draw his guns, but Anton, Wise, and Lathum had reached for theirs, and they had the angry pair covered. Stacy changed his mind about whirling his gun on his forefinger as he recovered it, and sullenly shoved it into its holster.

"We'll get yuh!" snarled Stacy, his furious eyes boring into The Kid's cool gray ones. "San Felipe is too small to hold both of us!"

"Bueno," said The Kid calmly. "I wish yo' luck—yo'll need it. But in the meantime—vamose pronto!"

Swearing angrily, the two men obeyed. It seemed the healthiest thing to do just then. They slunk out like whipped curs, but The Kid knew their breed.

He would see them again.

"Oh, the wintah's sun is shinin' on the Rio,
I'm ridin' in mah homeland and I find it mighty nice;
Life is big and fine and splendid on the Rio,
With just enough o' trouble fo' the spice!"

If Kid Wolf's improvised song was wanting from a poetical standpoint, the swinging, lilting manner in which he crooned it made up for its defects. His tenor rose to the canyon walls, rich and musical.

"Our cake's plumb liable to be overspiced with trouble," Frank Lathum said with a laugh.

Kid Wolf, with his three newly hired riders, were well on their way to the S Bar. His companions knew of a short route that would take them directly to the Thomas hacienda, and they were following a steep-walled canyon out of the mesa lands to the westward.

"Look!" cried Wise. "Somebody's coming after us!"

They turned and saw a lone horseman riding toward them from the direction of San Felipe. The rider was astride a fast-pacing Indian pony and overhauling them rapidly. Since leaving the town, Kid Wolf's party had been in no hurry, and this had enabled the rider to overtake them.

"It's Goliday," muttered Anton, shading his weather-beaten eyes with a brown hand.

"Just who is he?" The Kid drawled.

"I think he's really the hombre behind Major Stover," Wise spoke up.
"He owns the ranch to the north o' the S Bar, and from what I hear,
Stover has been tryin' to buy it fer him."

"Oh," The Kid murmured, "let's wait fo' him then, and heah what he has to say."

Accordingly, the four men drew up to a halt and wheeled about to face the oncoming ranchman. They could see him raising his hand in a signal for them to halt. He came up in a cloud of dust, checked his pony, and surveyed the little party. His eyes at once sought out Kid Wolf.

Goliday was a man of forty, black-haired and sallow of face. He wore a black coat and vest over a light-gray shirt. Beneath the former peeped the ivory handle of a .45.

"Hello," panted the newcomer. "Are you the hombre that caused all the stir back in San Felipe?"

"What can I do fo' yo'?" asked the Texan briefly.

"Well," said Goliday, "let's be friends. I'll be quite frank. I want the S Bar. Is it true yo're goin' there to run the place for the old woman?"

"It is," The Kid told him.

"I'll pay yuh well to let the place alone," offered Goliday after a pause. "I'll give five thousand cash for the ranch, and if the deal goes through, why I'm willin' to ante up another thousand to split between you four.

"I'm a generous man, and it'll pay to have me for a friend. Savvy? As an enemy I won't be so good. Now, Mr. Wolf, if that's yore name, just advise Mrs. Thomas to sell right away. Is it a bargain?"

"It's mo' than that," murmured The Kid softly. "It's an insult."

Goliday did not seem to hear this remark. He reached into his vest and drew out something that glittered in the sun.

"Here's a hundred and twenty to bind the bargain—six double eagles.
And there's more where these came from. Will yuh take 'em?"

"I'll take 'em," drawled Kid Wolf. He reached out for the gold, and they clinked into his palm.

"I'll take 'em," he repeated, "and beah's what I'll do with 'em!"

With a sweeping movement, he tossed them high into the air. The sun glittered on them as they went up. Then, with his other hand, The Kid drew one of his guns.

Before the handful of coins began to drop, The Kid was firing at them. He didn't waste a bullet. With each quick explosion a piece of gold flew off on a tangent. Br-r-rang, cling! Br-r-rang, ting! There were six coins, and The Kid fired six times. He never missed one! He picked the last one out of the air, three feet from the ground.

Goliday watched this exhibition of uncanny target practice with bulging eyes. As the echoes of the last shot died away, he turned on The Kid with a bellow of wrath.

"No, yo' don't!" Kid Wolf sang out.

Goliday took his hand away from the butt of his ivory-handled gun. The Texan had pulled his other revolver with the bewildering speed of a magician. Goliday was covered, "plumb center."

"That's our answah, sah!" The Kid snapped.

Goliday's sallow face was red with rage.

"I have power here!" he rasped. "And yuh'll hear from me! There's only one law in this country, and that's six-gun law—yuh'll feel it within forty-eight hours!"

"Is that so?" said The Kid contemptuously. "I have a couple of lawyahs heah that can talk as fast as any in San Felipe County. The S Bar accepts yo' challenge. Come on, boys. Let's don't waste any mo' time with this."

Grinning, the quartet struck out again westward, leaving the disgruntled ranchman behind. The last they saw of him, he was kicking about in the mesquite, looking for his gold.

CHAPTER XIII

DESPERATE MEASURES

Nightfall found the quartet established in the S Bar bunk house. The joyful thanks of Ma Thomas was enough reward for any of them. She hadn't expected to see Kid Wolf again, she said, and to have him return with help was a wonderful surprise.

She was a woman transformed and had taken new heart and courage. The supper she prepared for them, according to Kid Wolf, was the best he had eaten since he had left Texas.

All four of them were exceedingly hungry, and they made short work of Ma Thomas' enchiladas, crisp chicken tacos, peppers stuffed, and her marvelous menudo—a Mexican soup.

"With such eats as this," sighed The Kid, "I know the S Bar is saved."

They were gathered now in the long, whitewashed adobe bunk house, and had finished their sad task of burying Thomas, victim of an assassin's bullet.

The Kid obtained the bullet that had taken the old rancher's life. It was a .45 slug, and while the others believed it useless as evidence, The Kid carefully put it away in his pocket.

"It's hard to say who done it," Fred Wise said doubtfully.

"Yes," The Kid agreed. "I believe Ma Thomas was right when she said the hand of every one in San Felipe seemed to be raised against her. How much do yo' suppose the S Bar is wo'th, Anton?"

"Well, with five good springs—two rock tanks and three gravel ones, she's a first-class layout. The pick of the country. I'd say twenty thousand."

"The robbers!" muttered Kid Wolf.

"What's on the program?" asked Frank Lathum. "We can't do much ranchin' without cattle."

"No," admitted The Kid. "We must get those cattle back."

"But who ever heard o' gettin' cattle out o' Old Mexico after they've once been driven in?" Anton growled. "It can't be done!"

"Money in cattle can't be hid like money in jewels or cash," said The Kid. "Theah not so easy to get rid of, even in Mexico. The town of Mariposa lies just over the bordah, am I right? And the only good cattle lands for a hundred miles are just south of theah, isn't that so?"

"Yes, but——"

"Men, this is a time fo' desperate measures. We must stake all on one turn of the cards. Boldness might win. I want yo' hombres to be in Mariposa the day pasado mañana."

"The day after to-morrow!" Wise repeated. "What's yore plan, Kid?"

"I don't know exactly," Kid Wolf admitted. "I make mah plans as I go along. But I'm ridin' into Mexico to-morrow to see what I can see. I'll try to have the six hundred head of S Bar cattle in Mariposa the next day, some way or anothah."

Bold was the word! The quartet talked until a late hour. The three riders had caught some of The Kid's own enthusiasm and courage.

"Ma Thomas sure needs us now," said Anton.

"Hasn't she any relatives?" Kid Wolf asked.

"A son," muttered Wise in a tone of disgust. "Small good he is."

"Where is he?"

"Nobody knows," growled Lathum. "Somewhere in Mexico, I guess. He was practically run out o' San Felipe. He's no bueno."

Kid Wolf learned that the son—Harry Thomas—had nearly broken his parents' hearts. He had become wild years before, and was now nothing more or less than a gambler, suspected of being a cheat and a "short-card operator."

"He was a tinhorn, all right," said Wise, "and fer the life of me I don't know how a woman like Ma Thomas could have such a worthless rake fer a son. He was a queer-lookin' hombre—one brown eye and one black eye."

"Ma loves him, though. Yuh can tell thet," put in Lathum.

"Oh, yes," pointed out Anton soberly. "Mothers always do. Great things, these mothers."

He blew his nose violently on his red bandanna, and shortly afterward went to bed. Soon all four were in the bunks, resting for the hard work that awaited them on the morrow—mañana—and many days after mañana.

Kid Wolf was up very early the next morning, and saddled Blizzard after a hasty breakfast. He had much to do.

The three S Bar men went part way with him—to a point beyond the south corral. It was here that Mrs. Thomas had found the body of her murdered husband. There seemed to be no clew as to who had performed the deliberate killing. Before The Kid left, however, he did a little scouting around. In the sand behind a mesquite, fifty yards from the spot where the body had been found, he discovered significant marks.

"Come ovah heah, yo' men," he sang out.

Distinct in the sand were the prints made by a pair of low-heeled, square-toed boots.

"Well," Anton grunted.

"Know those mahks?"

All shook their heads. They had certainly been made by an unusual pair of boots. In a country where high-heeled riding footgear was the thing, such boots as these were seldom seen. All three admitted that they had seen such boots somewhere, but, although they racked their brains, they were unable to say just who had worn them.

"Well, take a good look at them," drawled The Kid. "I want yo' to be witnesses to the find. Some day this info'mation might be of use. In the meantime, adios, boys!"

"Good luck!" they shouted after him. "We'll be on hand at Mariposa mañana morning."

Kid Wolf hit the trail for Mexico at a hammer-and-tongs gallop.

The Mexican town of Mariposa was scattered over ten blazing acres of sand just south of the Rio Grande. It was an older city than San Felipe, and its buildings were more elaborate.

One in particular, just off the Plaza, attracted the eye of Spanish ranchman and peon alike. It was the meeting place of the thirsty—the famed El Chihuahense, a saloon and gambling house known from El Paso to California.

Built of brown adobe originally, it had been painted a bright red. The carved stone with which it was trimmed shone in white contrast to the vivid walls. An archway was the entrance to the establishment and many a bullet hole within its shadow testified to the dark deeds that had happened there.

Now, as on every night, the place was ablaze with light. Big oil lamps by the score, backed by polished reflectors, illumined the interior. From within came the strains of guitars and the gay scrapings of a fiddle, mingled with the hum of Spanish voices, an occasional oath in English, and the rattle of chips and coins.

At the hitch rack outside the saloon stood a big white horse—waiting.

Kid Wolf was playing poker in the El Chihuahense, and he had been at it for two solid hours. Those who knew The Kid better would have wondered at this. Ordinarily, Kid Wolf was not a gamester. He played cards rarely, never for any personal gain, and only when there seemed to be a good reason for so doing. But the Texan knew the game.

A trio of Mexican landowners who thought they were skilled at it had quickly found out their error—and withdrew, more or less gracefully. Now a crowd of swarthy-faced men, numbering more than a score, were massed around the draw-poker table near the door. They were watching the masterful play of this slow-drawling hombre—this gringo stranger who had been seen about Mariposa all day, and who now was "bucking heads" with a lone antagonist.

Kid Wolf's opponent was also an American, but one well known to the Mariposans. A stack of gold coins was piled in front of him, and he riffled the cards as he dealt in the manner of a professional. This man was young, also. He wore a green eye shade, and a diamond glittered in his fancy shirt. He was a gambler.

The game seesawed for a time. First Kid Wolf would make a small winning, and then the man with the green eye shade. Most of the bets, however, were so heavy as to make the Mexicans about the table gasp with envy.

But the crisis was coming. The deal passed from the gambler to The Kid and back to the gambler again. The pot was already swollen from the antes. The Kid opened.